


He That Fights Monsters

by Liron_aria



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: AU of Scorpia Rising, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, BAMF Ian Rider, Canon - Book & Movie Combination, Canon-Typical Violence, EAT SHIT BLUNT, Espionage, Family Feels, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Ian Rider Lives, If it helps my facecast for Ian is literally Daniel Craig, Medical Inaccuracies, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:48:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 23,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21926218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liron_aria/pseuds/Liron_aria
Summary: It's been thirteen months. Thirteen months since Alex was thrust into the world of espionage and danger. Thirteen months since he felt like a normal schoolboy. Thirteen months since Ian Rider died. Alex knows his life will never be quite the same again, just as he knows he'll never see his Uncle again.The problem is, that's a lie.Ian Rider is not dead.He's been in captivity for over a year, and when he gets home, Scorpia and anyone who's ever touched his nephew will see death as a mercy when he's done with them.As they say, he that fights monsters should take care, lest he, too, become a monster.
Relationships: Alan Blunt & Ian Rider, Alex Rider & Ian Rider, Ian Rider & John Rider, Ian Rider & SCORPIA, Tom Harris & Alex Rider, Tulip Jones & Ian Rider
Comments: 54
Kudos: 129





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I actually started this fic back in 2013, but never got around to finishing it. Then a few days ago, I found out that an Alex Rider TV series is in the works, and all my Ian Rider feelings came back with a _vengeance,_ so I figured now might be a good time to dust this fic off and at least post what I already have written, to get back into the spirit of things.
> 
> With that said, please, read and enjoy!

“I don’t buy it.”

“We are at the man’s _funeral_ , Taylor, what do you mean you don’t-”

“Ian Rider would never go down in something so mundane as a car shooting.”

A man in a black suit and tie hissed and looked around quickly, dragging his companion, a woman in a black dress, further away from the main funeral proceedings.

“Taylor -”

“Oh, do stop worrying, Colin. You know I’m better than that.”

Colin, a tall man with brown hair and grey eyes, shook his head, releasing Taylor. The woman smirked, tucking an errant blonde curl behind her ears. “Think about it. Closed casket. No flag. It’s been what, two days, since the supposed incident? Agents usually have nearly a week delay for the autopsies and redactions.”

Colin sighed. “Taylor, you’re grasping at straws. I know how much you want Ian to be alive somehow -”

“Ian was one of _us_ ,” Taylor hissed back, “He was one of the _best_. He was easily the most paranoid bugger I’ve ever met, and he outfitted his car with a _rocket launcher_. I’ve seen him _sleep_ in Kevlar. You think something as simple as semi-automatic fire is going to take him out?”

“Ian Rider may have been a bogeyman on the Continent and the rest of the world, but he was still just a man.”

Taylor crossed her arm and glared at her colleague. Colin sighed again. “Alright, fine. Who gains by faking Ian’s death, and what do they gain?”

Taylor tilted her head over to a young boy, about fourteen years old, short for his age, but athletic. The boy glanced over in their direction, but then turned away as he was approached by a man in a grey suit.

“... Oh you’ve _got_ to be joking.”

Taylor turned and started walking. “The KGB started recruiting as young as nine.”

Colin scowled. “FSB. That’s a line even Blunt wouldn’t cross. Especially not if Ian’s actually still... Not with the things Ian knows.”

Taylor rolled her eyes at the correction and glanced back at the man in the grey suit and the dark-haired woman beside him. “In the event of an Agent’s death, their homes are stripped and wiped down.”

Colin frowned, before his face blanked of emotion. “You don’t think this is Blunt making a play to...”

“I don’t know _what_ I think,” Taylor replied unhappily, “But I know Ian’s not dead. We should start from there.”

“We? There is no ‘we’ in this, Taylor -”

Taylor stared at her colleague.

“... Fine. I’ll call Liz and Callum when they get back.”


	2. Ian’s Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What job?” The words fell heavily from Alex’s lips, as the light from the past four months faded away, replaced by the dark tunnel of the MI6 world.
> 
> And then someone kicked his door open.
> 
> “Mr. Blunt, Ms. Jones, get the Hell out of my house.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going to be posting one chapter a day, to try and give myself some time to finish the fic. (We’ll see how that goes >.>)
> 
> Read and enjoy!

Colin MacAvoy. Age 42. 6’ 1”, brown hair, grey eyes. Built like a brick. Paratrooper. MI6’s best.

Taylor Farnesworth. Age 38. 5’ 5”, blonde hair, hazel eyes. Built like a _woman_ , thank you. Signals. MI6’s second best.

Ian Rider. Age 38. 5’ 11”, fair hair, hazel eyes. Thin. Sniper. MI6’s third best.

Elizabeth ‘Liz’ Bennett. Age 29. 5’ 5”, brown hair, brown eyes. Wiry. Counterterrorism. MI6’s fourth best.

Callum White. Age 35. 5’ 9”, black hair, blue eyes. Powerhouse. Weapons. MI6’s fifth best.

They weren’t friends. They weren’t a team. Most of them barely even worked with partners. But they were the Elite, the five best operatives MI6 had, and that set them apart. That meant that when one of their own went down, they found them, and torched the bastards who hurt them.

Or they would, if Ian Rider hadn’t walked out of a Scorpia torture camp on his own and done the job for them.

“What took y’so long,” the fair-haired man slurred, “Y’waitin’ for an invitation?”

Taylor glanced at Colin. “I told you so.”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. Callum, with me. Ladies - you know what to do.”

Liz and Taylor nodded, making their way through the camp, while Colin and Callum crouched beside Ian. They’d found the man seated in the entryway of the compound, shoulders slumped, and an AK-47 lying at his side. His clothes were ill-fitting and torn, bloody in more places than not. His eyes were glazed with fever and pain, but the expression on his face was still focused and determined.

“Didn’t... Didn’t think Blunt would authorise a rescue mission,” Ian grit out as the men helped him up.

“He didn’t,” Callum replied, “Jones ordered us not to get caught.”

“Where are we, Panama?”

“Columbia,” Colin answered, “You always were better with Arabic dialects than Spanish.”

“My captors weren’t exactly keen on talking to me, now, were they?”

“We’ve got a plane waiting a quarter of a mile out, can you make it?”

Ian muffled a groan and pushed forward. Colin and Callum caught him when he stumbled three steps later.

“We’ll take that as a yes, then.”

Ian was near delirious by the time they made it to the plane, sagging between the other two MI6 agents and mumbling weakly about his nephew.

“Come on, Rider,” Colin coaxed, “You took out an entire terrorist camp by yourself, but a stroll through the woods’ll do you in?”

Ian’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped on Callum, unconscious.

“Ian!”

“The IV’s on board, hurry.”

They worked quickly, hooking up electrodes to the thin man, and sliding a needle into his arm.

Colin swore. “We’re going to need a tourniquet for his other arm. If we start working now, we won’t be able to stop.”

“Fine by me,” Callum grunted, keeping a hand over one of Ian’s injuries and searching for gauze with the other, “Liz flies better than you, anyway.”

“Seeing as I actually passed my flight exam without flirting with anyone?” A female voice added wryly.

Liz and Taylor hopped onto the plane easily, sliding the door shut behind them, and Liz made her way to the cockpit. Taylor set down the bags she’d been carrying and ran her fingers through her hair.

“Rider did good. We got a lot more information from their systems than we expected. This... this could be what MI6 needs to take down Scorpia for good.”

“Don’t jinx it,” Liz called out over her shoulder.

“Aye, aye, just keep your eyes forward,” Taylor volleyed back.

* * *

Jack looked up from the stove as three firm knocks on the front door rang throughout the house. Alex, who was doing his homework at the table, looked between her and the door.

“Are we expecting anyone?”

“Didn’t think we were,” Jack replied, opening the door to see a blonde and a brunette standing in front of her. Both women wore similar navy suits, with pale blue blouses.

“Miss Starbright? Jack Starbright?”

“Yes,” Jack replied, “Can I help you with something?”

The brunette nodded. “Is Alex Rider in residence?”

Jack immediately froze, her expression hardening. “Can I ask why you need to know?”

The women glanced at each other before the blonde replied, “My name is Liz Bennet - yes, my mother had a strange sense of humour - and this is Taylor Farnesworth. We worked with Ian Rider. If we may, we’d like to speak with you -”

“You want him for a job, don’t you?!” Jack demanded furiously.

“Miss Starbright-”

“Well, you can just tell your bosses that I’m putting my foot down. Alex will not be involved with any of this anymore. You people have taken enough from him already, you won’t do it any longer!”

With that, she slammed the door in their faces.

“Jack...”

Jack whirled around, surprised to see Alex so close behind her.

The blond teen looked amused. “Did you just slam the door in MI6’s face?”

“... Yes. Yes, I did. And if they know what’s good for them, they’ll keep away!”

The image of his housekeeper brandishing her ladle at MI6 agents, or even the Heads of Special Operations, proved too comical and Alex burst into snickers. He tried to hide it behind his hand, but Jack caught his mirth and started chuckling.

Their laughter covered the sound of the car driving away.

* * *

Alex Rider was not having a good day. He’d been shot at, cycled across half of London at top speed, and shot a helicopter into the Thames with a fire extinguisher.

Now, Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones were sitting in his living room, asking him to work for them.

“What job?” The words fell heavily from Alex’s lips, as the light from the past four months faded away, replaced by the dark tunnel of the MI6 world.

And then someone kicked his door open.

“Mr. Blunt, Mrs. Jones, get the Hell out of my house.”

The order was delivered calmly, as if the speaker couldn’t imagine anyone not obeying. And Ian Rider, despite standing in the doorway on a crutch and being covered in enough bandages to make a mummy jealous, looked very much like he expected to be obeyed.

“Now, if you will,” Ian reiterated, hobbling inside the house.

Alan Blunt’s lips thinned unhappily, and Alex shot to his feet. _“Ian?!”_

“That is what it says on my birth certificate,” Ian replied mildly, turning to Alex. He stared at the teen, drinking in his appearance. “Good Lord, you grew tall.”

“You - you’re _dead!”_

“So I’ve been told. Repeatedly.” Ian turned to Blunt, who was still sitting stiffly across from Alex and Jack. His eyes were cold and his smile bitter. “I hear my funeral was very tasteful, though.”

“Oh, it was,” a blonde woman replied, stepping out from behind Ian, “Loved the flower arrangements.”

A brunette followed behind her, both women armed with guns and holding metal devices in their hands.

“You!” Jack blurted out, standing up beside Alex.

“Good evening Miss Starbright, Alex,” Liz replied amiably, “Ian, where are your stairs?”

“To your left.”

“Wait, she can’t -” Jack protested feebly as Liz turned and made her way up the stairs, to Ian’s office and the bedrooms.

“Please, don’t make me repeat myself,” Ian said, looking back at the Heads of Special Operations.

“Ian -” Mrs. Jones began. At Ian’s raised eyebrow, she amended, “Agent Rider, there are some things we still need to discuss -”

“Cairo’s a trap,” Ian cut in bluntly, “But you knew that.”

Ian reached across with one hand and peeled away something that had been taped across his crutch. He hobbled over and dropped a file in Blunt’s lap. “That’s the information on Erik Gunter you want.”

He dropped another file on top of the first. “That’s the information on what Scorpia’s planning in Cairo.”

Alex’s eyes widened.

“Agent Rider,” Blunt returned firmly, “Certain things do not need to be discussed here -”

“I know, that’s why I’ve been telling you to get out of my house for the past five minutes.”

The conversation was derailed by a loud commotion outside, involving yelling and gunshots. Ian turned slightly, moving closer to the door and saying, “And that would be the rest of the Elites and the ex-SAS nancy you set on me taking out the Scorpia agents spying on my house.”

That got Blunt and Jones’ attention. “Scorpia?”

“You would know this already if Sir wasn’t in the habit of putting all my files at the bottom of his to-do list.”

“That’s because your reports all read like pub brawls,” Taylor replied, returning to the living room.

“I dictated this time!”

Taylor snorted and deposited a handful of small metal devices on the coffee table. “That’s everything on this floor.”

“These are mine,” Ian replied, pulling a few of the bugs out from the pile, “The rest are not.”

“You bugged our house?!” Alex demanded.

“Yes.”

“Your Uncle is the most paranoid bugge - ahem - man I know,” Liz replied, making her way back down the stairs. “Here, some more.”

Something flew through the open window, and Ian’s free hand shot out, catching the projectile in mid-air. Ian glanced at the short dagger in his hand, before turning his arm and flicking his wrist, hurling the knife back out the way it came.

There was a cry of pain, and a stunned British voice swearing.

Ian hobbled his way back out, and the other occupants of the house trailed after him. A fair-haired man lay sprawled face-down on the pavement in front of their lawn, with another, dark-haired man pressing one knee into his back, pinning him down. The prone man had the dagger sticking out of his shoulder.

Ben Daniels looked up, his eyes narrowed, “Rider, did you make that shot?”

“Of course I did, what did you expect me to do when a knife came flying through my window?”

“Not set your recovery back by a week would have been nice.”

Ian glanced down irritatedly at the soldier. “Well, I wouldn’t have _had_ to, if you had managed to stop him before he got onto my property.”

“You seem to have everything well in hand, Agent Rider,” Mrs. Jones remarked as two men in suits carried over two unconscious Scorpia operatives.

Ian smirked. “I earned my rank for a reason, Ma’am.”

“Really? I thought you got it for terrorising new recruits by being a crotchety, abusive old man,” Ben snarked.

“Keep talking, Daniels, I’d love to punch you.”

“You already _have_ , three times today.”

“Okay, can someone _please_ explain to me _what is going on here?!”_ Jack demanded.

“Daniels is still angry at Ian for checking out of the hospital a few hours after major surgery, and Ian turns into a crotchety, abusive old man when he has a concussion,” Taylor explained helpfully.

“Not in public, Jack,” Ian replied absently, scanning the neighbourhood. A few curtains were shifting, as neighbours peeked out to see the what all the commotion was about. “Daniels, get him up and back where he came from. I don’t want assassins on my property.”

Ian looked back at his superiors as Ben hoisted the injured man up. “Don’t make me pull out the threats, Sir, Ma’am, because I can escalate this very quickly.”

Blunt and Mrs. Jones nodded to each other. “Very well. Agent Rider, we’ll expect to see you -”

“Tomorrow morning, 9:30 AM, Evelyn’s already cleared out your schedule.”

Slight raised eyebrows were the only responses Ian got as Blunt and Jones made their way to their car. As Blunt was about to get in, Ian reached out and grabbed his arm.

Ignoring the stiffening of the other Elite, and the chauffeur going for his gun, Ian pulled his boss close and said lowly, “Seven times in the fourteen years I’ve worked for you, you’ve asked me to choose between my job and Alex. Seven times, I’ve picked Alex. If you _ever_ come near my brother’s son again, I go straight to Jonathan and Will, and you can kiss your cushy little knighthood goodbye.”

“Is that a threat, Agent Rider?”

Ian released Blunt, a bland smile on his face. “Of course not, Sir. Just reminding you one of the reasons you keep me around. Have a good evening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?
> 
> Fair warning, this is a pro-Ian fic, so anyone coming to tell me he’s a bad parent for whatever reason in the books will be summarily ignored and their comment deleted.


	3. Explanations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “... I missed you,” Alex said softly, half to the carpet, and only half to Ian.
> 
> “I thought of you every day,” Ian admitted, “When I was under Scorpia’s power, the thought of you was what I held on to."

“Tanner’s crew is coming to pick the targets up,” Liz announced. “Dammit, Rider, I _just_ got done filling out post-mission paperwork, and now I have _more_ to do.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “It’s not like you’d have done anything with your day off, anyway. I want to be there when Callum and Colin start in on them.”

“What -”

“No, don’t be ridiculous -”

“You _just_ got out of surgery -”

Brutal, cold hatred filled Ian’s voice as he replied, “Scorpia went after _my_ _brother’s son_. The only thing stopping me from tearing their heads off and sticking them on pikes in Venice is the fact that I’m _not_ on their side of the law.”

Several eyebrows rose, and Taylor patted Alex’s shoulder, responding flippantly,“Good to see that thirteen months out of commission haven’t dulled your homicidally protective urges.”

Ian smiled, all teeth and no warmth. “Oh, believe me, I’ve still got it.”

“If Daniels had his way, you’d _still_ be out of commission,” Liz pointed out, giving Ian a cautious once-over.

“Good thing I’m his superior, then, isn’t it?” Ian turned and hobbled back towards the house. “Come on, I want to get the sensors reset while the night’s young.”

“Rider, you’re not seriously thinking about re-bugging your house in your condition,” Taylor demanded, “Can you even lift your arms above your head?”

Ian flashed her a grin. “That’s what I have you for, isn’t it, Farnesworth?”

Taylor scowled. “Rider...”

“Algiers, Farnesworth, Algiers.”

“... Damn. Fine, tell me where you want the infernal devices.”

Ian hobbled back into the house, navigating around the shards of glass on the floor. “Just put mine back where you found them. The ones upstairs -”

“Wait a minute,” Jack cut in, “The house was _bugged?_ And you never _told_ us?!”

“That would be the purpose of covert surveillance, Jack,” Ian replied mildly.

“That’s an _enormous_ breach of privacy, Ian!”

“You live with the most paranoid spy in the British Isles, Miss Starbright,” Liz commented as Taylor picked up Ian’s bugs and disappeared to replace them.

Jack clenched her fists.

Alex remained silent behind Jack, watching. His housekeeper was more furious than he had ever seen her, and Ian was... Ian was acting as if he’d never been away, as if he hadn’t been declared dead for over a year. He was acting as if he’d just been away for a conference, and as if the woman planting bugs in his house was _normal_.

Alex looked at the bugs on the coffee table they hadn’t picked. “What about those?”

Ian hobbled over, picking up a few of the bugs. He handed them to Liz. “These are mine. The rest... Are not, and I’m concerned that there seem to be so many of them.”

Liz took the devices Ian gave her and went to replace them, leaving Jack, Ian, and Alex alone in the living room. Ian picked up another one, holding it up to the light. “This one’s MI6... Movers came by the house during the funeral, didn’t they?”

Alex nodded. “They emptied out your office completely.”

Ian pressed his lips together in a thin line, separating the pile in two. “Yes... And left behind some presents, too.”

“These, on the other hand, are Scorpia,” Ian said, gesturing to the other new pile. “Have you had any handymen stop by? Plumbers, painters, electrical workers?”

Jack and Alex shook their heads.

“So they broke in. I’ll check the footage later. I _think_ this one’s DGSE, Taylor would know better. What the Frogs think they’re doing...”

“These people have all been _spying_ on us?!”

Ian nodded grimly. “And a lot more intrusively than anything I had set up.”

“Are they still active?” Alex asked, gesturing to the bugs before Jack could build up steam.

Ian shook his head. “The scanners Liz and Taylor used killed them. Mine will reactivate when they put them back.”

Jack make a noise that sound strikingly like an angry chicken. “So what kind do you have, then? Spying on us while we sleep?”

Ian snorted, and Alex wondered why his uncle didn’t gamble, because his poker face was _impeccable._ “Don’t be so crass, Jack. There’s a camera with limited audio capability in the hallway and my office, and sensors on all the windows that alert me when they’re used as entry or exits points. Downstairs, there are motion sensors in every room and possible entry point, and cameras with limited audio in the kitchen and the living room. Think of it as an extended security system.”

“That’s it?” Jack questioned suspiciously.

“That’s it. I have no interest in playing Big Brother; my only concern is the safety of the members of this house.”

There was steel in Ian’s voice that Alex had never heard directed at Jack before. He had always been unfailingly polite and sometimes even gentle with her, as long as Jack had lived with them.

“You’re all set, Rider,” Taylor said, returning to the living room. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to check yourself back into St. Dominic’s?”

Ian waved dismissively. “It’s a broken leg and a few cuts, I’ll be fine.”

“St. Dominic’s?” Alex asked, “When were you there? How long-”

Alex cut himself off, but the unstated ‘How long were you there’ and ‘How long have you been back’ were heard loud and clear.

“We touched down on British soil some thirty hours ago,” Liz replied, returning down the stairs, “And he checked himself out four and a half hours ago.”

“Where were you before that?” Jack demanded, addressing the elephant in the room.

Ian sighed. “Imprisoned by Scorpia. They attacked in the middle of my mission in Cornwall. I got out about two days ago.”

“And they, what, they let you go?”

Alex’s eyes widened in shock. “Jack!”

Ian smiled blandly. “I made a _very_ persuasive argument.”

Ian turned back to Taylor and Liz. “You two go make sure Daniels hasn’t caused an international incident on my lawn.”

Taylor nodded. “We’ll see you in the morning, then. Daniels is staying the night -”

“What? Why? Tell him to go home.”

“- To make sure you don’t do anything stupid, and to escort you to headquarters tomorrow morning.”

“He’ll remain outside,” Liz added amusedly, “You won’t have to see him until you leave tomorrow morning.”

Ian scowled and gestured towards the door.

A tense silence settled over the remaining three members of the Rider household. Ian looked between Alex, Jack, the coffee table, and the broken lock on the door. “Well -”

_SMACK_

Ian’s head snapped to the side as Jack slapped him across the face. The redhead’s chest heaved as she breathed angrily, the hand at her side still clenched into a fist.

Ian turned his head back, his expression calm. “Can’t say I didn’t expect that.”

“Didn’t expect - You - you make me so _angry_ , Ian Rider! All this time, you _lied_ to us, and now your lies have gone and trapped Alex in this nightmare and -”

“I never wanted this for you, Alex.” Ian cut through Jack’s rant, his brown-swirling-green eyes intent on his nephew. “No matter what Blunt said, how he twisted things - because God knows that’s what that man is good at - I _never_ wanted you involved in this life.”

Alex swallowed. “You... he said you were training me.”

Ian reared back, half-disgusted, half-annoyed. “Bollocks I was! Alex, to be a spy, a good spy, you either need to love what you do, or love your cause enough to do it anyway.”

“So all the languages, the extreme sports, the karate...”

“You realise that if you put on your CV that you speak four languages fluently, you can get almost any job in the United States, Great Britain, Spain, France, Germany, Belgium, Switzerland, and many South American countries? How many of your peers will have that advantage?

“I’ll admit, enrolling you in karate lesson down at the club was related to my job. Blunt had me working a case on child prostitution in the United Kingdom. I was... made very aware of just how vulnerable most children in the UK are. I wanted you to be able to protect yourself.”

Ian sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “And the rest... I wanted to give you the world, Alex, but I’d never be able to make it home for dinner every night, or make it to every one of your matches. I’d never be able to give you a normal family experience, but trips to places most people don’t get to see? Vacations and holidays in different countries and different cultures? New experiences to show you just how big and beautiful the world is? I could give you that. I... tried... to give you that.”

Alex didn’t know what to think. It was everything he’d wanted to hear since he first met Alan Blunt and Tulip Jones. But... Ian was a spy, too. He lied and manipulated people for a living. How did he know for sure that Ian was telling the truth?

There was something old and infinitely sad in Ian’s eyes as he finished, “My position in the Service involves a lot of worst case scenarios across the entire globe. I won’t be around for you forever, and I wanted to give you every good memory, every useful skill, for whatever you wanted to do with your life before my time came.”

“Were you ever going to tell me? Tell us?”

Ian glanced at Jack for a moment, before nodding. “When you turned eighteen. Or earlier, if you went to a residential Sixth Form, or decided you wanted to move out at sixteen.”

“To recruit him?” Jack asked sharply.

Ian shook his head. “No. Alex, you’re good at what you do, very good from what I’ve read, but you don’t have the temperament for a spy. There would be no point in me pushing you towards that life. I would have told you because I’d have wanted you to stay safe and aware after you moved out of my protection.”

It was too much. Ian was saying everything Alex wanted to hear, every hope he had used as a shield in those first days after he met Blunt. And now, long after those hopes had faded into bitterness, Ian was serving them back to him on a silver platter... And he couldn’t trust him. After everything MI6 had put him through, he couldn’t trust his own Uncle.

“Your car,” Alex blurted out, “I saw it - after the funeral. There were holes in it, blood...”

Ian’s lips twisted. “My car is armour-plated with bulletproof glass. I checked, it’s currently in MI6 holding. I don’t know what you saw, but it wasn’t mine.”

Alex felt sick. “So Blunt faked it, all of it - just to get me to work for him.”

Ian pressed his lips into a thin line, his knuckles white as he gripped the handle of his crutches. “He has a lot to answer for.”

“And you _work_ for this man?!” Jack demanded

Ian’s expression hardened. “Alan Blunt is a lot of things, most of them unpleasant. But above all, he is a patriot, and this country needed him. He has a lot to answer for, and where it concerns Alex, I will make sure he does.”

Another tense silence descended between them. There were so many questions Alex wanted to ask. How had Ian gotten into spying? Why did he do it? Did he know the truth about John Rider and Ash and Yassen?

“Was any of it real?” Alex asked, “Your funeral - were they really your friends, or was that just a show, too?”

“Spies don’t have friends, Alex, we have allies and we have assets. But to answer your question - everyone besides Blunt and Jones was told I was dead. Some, like Taylor, didn’t believe the story, and even Blunt and Jones didn’t have proof of life.”

“So they suspected you weren’t dead, but didn’t have any evidence, and went ahead and labelled you KIA, is that it?”

Ian nodded.

“Then how did you...”

Ian smiled slightly, but there something vicious and cruel and deadly in his expression. “I got tired of Scorpia and made my way out. Taylor, Liz, and two of my other colleagues who had been attempting to find me picked me up and brought me back to England.”

Alex sat back down on the sofa, burying his head in his hands. “It’s... It’s a lot to take in.”

“I can imagine,” Ian replied and Alex felt his hackles rise at the calm, even tone of his Uncle’s voice.

“Can you?” he demanded, his head snapping back up, “Do you know what it feels like to lose someone you love, and then find out everything you knew about them was a lie? Do you know what it’s like to _get them back_ , and still not -” Alex buried his head back in his hands with a frustrated groan. He looked back up before Ian could even respond, his voice high. “ _Can_ you even feel? After all the lies and deceit and manipulation, are you even human anymore, or just another - another _construct_ from MI6?!”

Alex broke off, his breathing laboured. Inwardly, he was horrified at what had spewed from his mouth. Where had that even _come_ from?

There wasn’t any anger in Ian’s expression, though, only a small sad smile and something... faded. Tired. “I’ve got a lot of drugs in my system right now,” he replied frankly, “With a concussion. So that might have something to do with my… skewed emotional responses. And the rest... I lived with the knowledge that my brother was dishonourably discharged and proceeded to turn traitor on our country, on everything we believed in, for several years, until he died on a bridge over the Thames. And then I found out he was a double agent, and he came back, telling me his wife had an infant son, and that they were going to France for the next several months. So, yes. I know a little of what you must be feeling right now.”

Alex’s gaze dropped down to the carpet. The pain in Ian’s voice when he talked about his brother, he remembered that. He’d heard the same pain so many times growing up, until he finally stopped asking about John Rider. In this, at least, Ian wasn’t lying.

“... I missed you,” Alex said softly, half to the carpet, and only half to Ian.

There was a shuffle of plaster across carpet and the soft thud of metal, and Alex felt Ian’s fingers card through his hair. His Uncle hadn’t done that in years, not since Alex decided he was ‘too old’ to have his hair played with when he was eleven.

“I thought of you every day,” Ian admitted, “When I was under Scorpia’s power, the thought of you was what I held on to. It’s always been what kept me going in my darkest days with MI6.”

Alex rested his forehead on his Uncle’s hip, and, for the first time since a policeman knocked on his door at three in the morning, cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	4. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The list of things Jack expected to see in the kitchen at five in the morning was very short.
> 
> The Prime Minister helping Ian apply make-up was decidedly not on that list.

The list of things Jack expected to see in the kitchen at five in the morning was very short.

The Prime Minister helping Ian apply make-up was decidedly not on that list.

The Prime Minister held up a mirror as Ian applied foundation to his face, to cover up a hand-shaped bruise on his cheek.

Jack held back a gasp. She hadn’t hit him _that_ hard last night!

“That may be, Ian, but the fact that Blunt abandoned one of his best operatives - especially one who is a special friend of the Crown -”

“Jonathan, please don’t tell me you woke up Will when you found out I got back.”

“Do you see a Royal convoy outside?”

“I don’t need you going a Crusade, Jonathan, the _country_ doesn’t need that. As long as Alex is left out of it, I don’t care what you do.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I gave you Blunt’s job?”

Jack couldn’t hold her gasp back at that.

Both men turned towards the source of the noise, and Jack flushed. She knew what she looked like - hair mussed, tank top and pyjamas rumpled - and did she mention the _Prime Minister of the United Kingdom was standing in the kitchen?!_

The Prime Minister smiled, unperturbed at her eavesdropping. “Good morning, Miss Starbright.”

Jack let out a strangled squeak.

“Please don’t terrorise my housekeeper, Mr. Prime Minister,” Ian said evenly.

Jack’s attention immediately shifted to safer ground. “Ian - your face - did I -”

“Vitamin K deficiency,” Ian replied, “I bruise very easily right now.”

“That’s not the _only_ deficiency, as I recall,” the Prime Minister retorted sharply.

Ian raised an eyebrow. “How did you get my medical report?”

The Prime Minister simply smiled.

The kettle whistled softly, and Jack dashed over to it, grateful for something to do. As she poured out three cups, the Prime Minister chuckled. “It’s a bit like being back in school, isn’t it?”

“I’m not half your size, Sir, if that’s what you mean,” Ian snarked.

“Are you _ever_ going to drop the formalities, Ian?”

“Unlikely, Sir.”

The Prime Minister sighed as he accepted the cup of tea with his free hand. “Thank you, Miss Starbright. I don’t suppose _you_ could convince your employer to drop the titles?”

Jack’s eyes widened, remembering the earlier conversation she’d overheard. “Um...”

“What did I just say about terrorising my housekeeper?”

The Prime Minister grinned. “There’s the Ian Rider I remember. I’m glad, after everything...”

Ian tilted his head, checking in the mirror to make sure the bruise was completely covered. “It’ll take more than Scorpia to keep me down. You should be going, Sir, I’m sure you’ve a busy day ahead.”

The Prime Minister sighed, setting down the mirror and the teacup. “So busy, I can’t even stop by and welcome a friend home, it seems.”

Ian’s expression flickered, before settling into something completely neutral. “The Prime Minister of the UK can’t afford to be seen having much of a _friendship_ with a spy, Sir. It’ll set a tone for your term that will only hurt you.”

The Prime Minister shook his head. “So you’ve told me, many times. We’ll agree to disagree, shall we?”

Ian hobbled backwards to allow the Prime Minister to leave, and Jack nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden appearance of the Prime Minister’s bodyguards.

The leader of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland turned and gripped Ian’s shoulders, his expression serious and intent. “Ian, I know you live by the ‘allies and assets’ mentality of many operatives, but I want you know - _listen_ to me, Ian - you have a helping hand from me, whenever you need it.”

Ian’s eyes widened slightly, and he swallowed. He nodded and replied softly, “... Thank you, Jonathan.”

The older man gave a small smile and clapped Ian’s shoulders once. “Good man.”

With a nod to his bodyguards, the Prime Minister turned and left.

Jack stared at Ian, watching as he remained straight and tense, relaxing slightly at a muffled sound of surprise from outside, and then relaxing completely as a car drove away. The spy sighed and hobbled back to the counter and picked up his teacup, his hand trembling once. He was wearing a new shirt, diamond cufflinks glinting at his wrists, and crisp black slacks. If it weren’t for the plaster peeking out from under his trouser leg, Ian would look like he was on his way to work any other day.

Except for the part where it was five in the morning, and Ian was wearing make-up. Jack didn’t let herself think about how well it was done, and how she wouldn’t have noticed it at all if she hadn’t seen Ian put it on. There was something achingly lonely about the idea of Ian hiding bruises under make-up and neither she nor Alex noticing.

“Ian... Is everything... How long have you been awake?”

Ian blinked, setting down his cup and looking at her with a guarded expression. Had he always looked at her that way?

“Not that long, I’d say since about three, maybe half-past three?”

Jack looked at him in consternation. “Ian, you went to bed at eleven last night!”

Ian’s eyebrows rose mildly. “So I did. Well, it all worked out, imagine if I’d opened the door to the Prime Minister _in my pyjamas_.”

Jack flushed and reached out to swat Ian’s arm as she’d done so often before when he teased her. Then, his earlier comment caught up to her, and she gasped. “Sorry! Did I -”

“Don’t worry about it,” Ian replied with a dismissive wave. “Alex doesn’t have school today, does he?”

Jack shook her head. “No, Brooklands gave the students the week off.”

“Mmm... I wanted to catch him before I left.”

“What time are you leaving for... the Bank?”

“Around 8:30 should do it. Traffic can be a right nightmare getting to Royal and General.”

Jack glanced at the clock. It was barely half past five, and Ian was fully dressed.“Well, since we’re both up, I might as well make breakfast.”

“Jack, you don’t need to -”

“Ian Rider, you hired me as your housekeeper, now sit down and let me housekeep!”

Ian’s lips twitched into a smile, and he sat down at the island. “I’m surprised you’re still here,” he admitted at length.

Jack froze as she pulled eggs from the fridge, and then her shoulders slumped. “You found the letter, didn’t you?”

“If you’re going to type up your letter of resignation and don’t want anyone to know, it’s best you don’t write it on the home computer.”

“I - I’m sorry -”

“Don’t be,” Ian said calmly, “You’re a bright young woman, you’ve got your whole future ahead of you. I appreciate you staying on as long as you have.”

Jack huffed a laugh and turned the stove on. Ian nursed his tea as she worked, and eventually asked, “Do you still plan on leaving?”

Jack placed a saucepan on the stove cracked open an egg on the side. She dug out a spatula and started stirring. The egg started hissing and crackling before she replied, “My parents... They’re getting on in years. Dad suffered from heatstroke recently. I... I should go back soon. I was planning on talking to Alex and leaving at the end of the summer. He doesn’t _need_ me as much anymore, especially now that you’re back.”

Ian nodded. “Of course.”

Jack stirred the egg and glanced back at Ian suspiciously. “You _are_ planning on staying, right?”

Ian’s lips quirked. “I’ll be off active duty for several weeks while my leg heals, and then on desk duty for a couple months after that. I’ll be around.”

Jack tilted the saucepan and scraped the egg off onto another plate. She cracked two more eggs on the side. “But you’re not leaving MI6.”

“No.”

Jack stared at the eggs, her knuckles turning white around the handle of the saucepan. _Why?_ Why would he stay with those _monsters_ after what they put Alex through?

“I’m one of those monsters, Jack.”

Jack froze, realising she’d spoken aloud. She looked back to see Ian watching her, his elbow on the counter, his chin propped up on his fist. His expression was as calm and unreadable as ever.

“I work for MI6 because I love my country very much, and I am _very_ good at what I do. Director Blunt crossed the line when it came to Alex - he bloody well trampled over it, in fact. But Alan Blunt is not the whole of MI6. There are people there who rely on my skills, assets I’ve developed that MI6 needs. There are missions ongoing that need my expertise, and I _will give it_ as long as I am able. The world is dirty, dangerous place, and I took an oath fourteen years ago to stand between that tide of darkness and the people of the United Kingdom, so that they could sleep easy at night. I intend to _keep_ my oath - for Queen and Country, Jack.”

Jack scraped off the eggs onto the plate, her lips pressed in a thin line. “Would you have done it? If you were in Blunt’s position? Would you have used a _fourteen-year-old_ the way he did?”

“No.”

Jack placed the plate of scrambled eggs and a fork in front of Ian with a sigh. “I don’t understand you, Ian. I don’t think I ever will.”

Ian quirked a smile.

“But,” Jack said as she turned back to the stove, “At least if you’re here, Alex doesn’t have to go live with Cousin Martin in Glossop.”

Ian stabbed his fork into the plate so hard it cracked. “Alex will _never_ go to that wife-beating drunkard, as long as I have any say.”

Jack reared back, stunned, and Ian sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “John and I don’t come from good stock,” he explained, forcing the words out quickly, as if they’d affect him less that way, “Neither did Helen; that’s why she and John got on so well - both of them rising above their families. Her parents died in prison; mine and John’s died before they could get there. All of our _cousins_ , on either side, aren’t fit to take care of a rock, let alone a child.”

“I - I’m sorry.”

Ian shook his head. “You didn’t know. How did you find out about him, anyway?”

“I did some searching after you... disappeared,” Jack admitted, “I was still thinking of leaving, and I wanted to know who’d take care of Alex. You never talked about your family...”

“The only family I cared to talk about was dead,” Ian replied distantly, “John was - my world. And I was his, at least until he went off to university and I became just another annoying younger brother. John and Helen were beautiful together...”

Fifteen years, and it still felt like Jones told him about their deaths a few hours ago. Time hadn’t healed this wound at all; it was as raw and bleeding as it had been the day he found out about his brother and sister-in-law’s deaths. He still remembered his own screams and grief, echoing in the back of his mind.

He came out of his reverie to the sound of feet rapidly thudding down the stairs, and stood up in time for Alex to burst into the kitchen.

“Ian!”

Alex’s eyes lit up upon seeing his Uncle, and he couldn’t stop the grin from breaking out across his face. Ian grinned back, shifting his arms to allow for the hug Alex promptly tackled him with.

“I’m here, Alex,” he murmured, carding his fingers through Alex’s hair, “I’m still here.”

“I wasn’t - I thought it was a dream,” Alex admitted into Ian’s shoulder.

Ian tightened his grip and held his nephew close.

“What are you doing up so early?” Ian asked, when they finally broke apart.

“I smelled the eggs - Jack’s normally never up this early.”

Jack made a face at the teen and gestured towards Ian. “It’s his fault, he was up long before I was.”

Alex looked at his Uncle in consternation. “You’re not leaving _now,_ are you?”

Ian shook his head with a smile. “No, I’m not heading out until half-past-eight at the earliest. I had an early-morning visitor, is all.”

Alex’s brow furrowed. “Who would come visit this early in the morning?”

“Someone who finds out I’ve returned to the country at three in the morning and has the patience of a four-year-old.”

Jack sputtered. “ _Ian!_ You can’t talk about the _Prime Minister_ that way!”

Ian’s eyebrow rose and Alex’s jaw dropped. “Wait - the Prime Minister - _Jonathan Cross_ \- was here? At three in the morning?!”

“Four in the morning, actually,” Ian corrected calmly, his eyes glittering with mischief.

“You’re having me on, aren’t you?!” Alex demanded.

“Jack as my witness, I’m not.”

Alex looked between his exasperated housekeeper and smirking Uncle. He swatted Ian’s arm. “Ian!”

Ian laughed, his voice mellow and clear. It was a sound Alex never thought he’d hear again. It felt all new and blissfully familiar at the same time. Ian was _here._ His hair was shorn shorter than he’d worn it before, and he looked thinner, but he was _here._ At home.

Alex grinned and swiped some scrambled eggs off Ian’s plate as Jack turned back to the stove. Everything was finally as it should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think~


	5. MI6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the first time in recent memory, the whole of the Royal and General Bank was in an uproar.
> 
> Ian Rider had returned to MI6.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I forgot to post yesterday, y'all get TWO chapters today!

Eight forty-five saw Ian and Ben in an armoured car, on their way to the Royal and General Bank. Ben was driving, and Ian was in the front seat, his head tilted back and face contorted in pain.

“Remind me what’s stopping me from driving you straight to St. Dominic’s instead of the Bank right now?” Ben demanded.

“Because I can get to your gun faster than you can,” Ian snapped back, his breathing laboured.

Ben cast him an irritated glance. “ _Please_ tell me you haven’t broken your ribs again.”

“I wouldn’t be _breathing_ if I’d broken them again, you idiot. Getting tackle-hugged by your nephew when he’s fifteen, turns out, is a lot more painful than getting tackle-hugged by him when he’s ten.”

Ben’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. “There’s Lidocaine in the dash.”

“Need my mind clear for the meeting.”

“You -” Ben groaned in frustration. “There’s some paracetamol in the back - do _not_ try and find it yourself, I’ll get it at the next red light. How’s your leg?”

“On fire.”

“Shoulder?”

“Also on fire.”

“Is there any part of you not in pain?”

“... My fingertips?”

“You don’t have functional nerve endings in your fingertips.”

Ian turned with difficulty, throwing Ben a questioning glance. “Do I want to know how you know that?”

“I got bored standing guard outside your house all night.”

“And you were giving _me_ grief for not sleeping enough.”

“ _I_ am not malnourished and recovering from being tortured by Scorpia interrogators for thirteen months.”

The car drove over a manhole cover and Ian choked back a groan of pain.

“Damn, I’m sorry -”

“Ngh. I’ll be fine.”

Ben huffed. “I can see where Alex gets his stubbornness from.”

“He gets it from his father,” Ian correctly softly, “We both do.”

“... Right.”

The car rolled to a stop in front of a red light, and Ben immediately turned back, retrieving a sheet of pills and a bottle of water. “Here. Paracetamol and water.”

“God bless you and all your descendants,” Ian muttered, taking the offering.

“... I really should just take you to the hospital.”

“I _will_ shoot you, Daniels, don’t think I won’t.”

“Goddammit, Rider, you are such a pain in the arse...”

* * *

For the first time in recent memory, the whole of the Royal and General Bank was in an uproar.

There’d been minor upsets over the years, of course, usually from the Science Division, with their many explosions. There was even that memorable day when the Head of the Legal Team had stormed in from Vauxhall Cross just to throw a stapler at Director Blunt’s head.

But this... Today, the cause of upset was a man who had been intimately familiar with every department, nearly every _worker_ in the building. A man who, for thirteen months, had been labelled killed in action, to the quiet sorrow of many.

A man who had made his way to Director Blunt and Deputy Director Jones’ office, his head held high, and his stride sure.

Ian Rider had returned to MI6.

“I forgot how much of a legend you were around here,” Ben muttered as he escorted Ian through the corridors, “I’m no longer sure whether this position is supposed to be a promotion or a demotion.”

Ian smirked. “This is MI6, Daniels. It’s clearly both.”

Behind Ian and Ben, four people were falling into step, further increasing the excitement within the Bank.

For the first time in over a decade, all five of MI6’s best Agents, the Elite, were in the same city. Not only the same city, but the same _building._ Rumour had it that it was actually an international agreement that the five best Agents would never be together. Rumour also had it that the Chechen ambassador refused to set foot in the same city as Colin MacAvoy, so there was room for error.

“Try not to kill Sir, alright?”

“I make no promises.”

“Then at least make sure to keep your job,” Callum added in amusement, “We’ll take care of the rest.”

Ian smirked. “ _That_ , I can do.”

An Agent held open the door to Blunt’s office, and Ian stepped through with a nod.

Liz waited until the door closed again before turning to Ben. “How bad is he?”

Ben grimaced. “On a scale of one to ten? Probably in the twenties. He refused Lidocaine, all he’s got in him is water, two paracetamol tablets, coffee, and a plate of scrambled eggs.”

Liz pressed her lips in a thin line. Out of all the Elite, she had the largest soft spot for Ian. He was the one who brought her into MI6, ten years ago, when she was lost, angry, and doing nothing useful with her life. He wasn’t part of the Elite, then, but he showed a lot of promise. They rose through the ranks together, Ian always ahead, her mentor.

She knew that field operatives weren’t supposed to form attachments, not when their lives were built on deceit and shadows. No relationship they built would be strong and healthy, and they ran the risk of dying every day. They ran the risk of leaving behind broken hearts and homes every day. Or worse, the people they loved would be used against them and turn into collateral damage. Some operatives did it anyway, and it made them stronger for it - and more vulnerable. There had to be a balance, she supposed, and incredible self-awareness and understanding of human nature to juggle all that.

Spies didn’t have much in the way of affection, but they had something more - they had loyalty, and they had debt. Loyalty to their country, loyalty to their colleagues. Debt to those who saved their lives. Spies turned on each other all the time - Howell, Richardson, Cormack proved that well enough - but to those to whom they were loyal, they were ferociously so. And good spies _always_ repaid their debts.

Liz knew she might one day have to choose between saving him and taking out the enemy. She might even get the order to kill him if he ever went rogue. It would be _easier_ to make that call if she didn’t feel anything for him. But human nature didn’t work that way, and until that day came, she would be _damned_ if Ian Rider got himself killed because of his own recklessness.

“When he gets done here, take him back to St. Dominic’s.”

“You’re just _trying_ to get me killed, aren’t you,” Ben groaned, but he was already making the call.

“She’s still getting back at you for flirting with her three months ago,” Callum replied lightly.

Ben replied with a rude gesture, turning away to talk lowly on his phone as the Elites made their way away from Blunt’s office.

“Is it true?”

The Elites paused at the edge of a large common area spanning the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth floors of the building. A nervous young man stood at the head of the stairs behind them, not more than twenty-two years old, the Agents beyond him in the common area resolutely not paying attention.

“Is what true, lad?” Colin asked.

“They say... That is, I heard... Agent Rider was... abandoned. Given up for nothing in exchange.”

The rookie Agent’s voice was low and soft, and he kept glancing behind the Elite to Blunt’s door, as if he were expecting the Director himself to burst out of it.

“Do we work at MI6 or a gossip mill?” Taylor snapped.

It was as good as a yes.

The Agent’s eyes widened. “But... _why?_ ”

And therein lay the danger. For all intents and purposes, Alan Blunt had abandoned Ian Rider to Scorpia in a power play. Out of all the Elite, Ian had the most blackmail on Blunt, and everyone knew it. Blunt had used Ian’s kidnapping to retrieve the information Ian had on him, and blocked all search attempts for thirteen months. There was nothing _gained_ from it, no prisoners exchanged, no crises averted. His recovery had been officially unsanctioned.

If Blunt turned his back on Ian Rider, one of the best, simply because he didn’t like him, what hope did any other field operative have?

“Keep in mind that Ian is responsible for bringing us the information we need to finally take down Scorpia, for good,” Callum cut in quietly, “If Sir _hadn’t_ left Ian there for all those months...”

“Are we so far gone that we take pyrrhic victories, then?” another Agent asked sharply. Jenny Chisholm, 38, blonde hair, blue eyes. Not the best Agent, but not the worst. She and Ian had... Well, _she_ had; Ian had been about as receptive as a brick wall. She still carried a torch for Ian, and hadn’t forgiven Blunt for closing the book on him prematurely.

“Nothing’s ever black and white, we all know that,” Callum replied, “We’ve got Ian back, and critical access to the world’s foremost terrorist organisation. That’s more than we had yesterday, and one of the biggest wins we’re likely to get in this job.”

“Besides, does it really matter anymore?” Taylor added, “The past is the past, and we all know Sir isn’t going to be around much longer.”

Jenny and the rookie Agent nodded reluctantly, returning to their work at the Elite’s glare.

Colin glanced between his colleagues. Liz’s fists were clenched, though her expression was as blank as Callum’s, and Taylor’s mouth was set in a faint frown. “Let’s take a walk. Daniels, keep watch.”

Ben nodded, and Colin led the other Elites away from the view of all the other MI6 Agents. They barely made it to an empty office before Liz whirled on Callum and Taylor, demanding furiously, “Do you mind telling me what the two of you thought you were doing back there?!”

Taylor looked around the office before turning back to Colin. “You trying to say something, mate?”

They were in Ian Rider’s office.

Colin simply smiled blandly, while Callum answered, “Liz, Ian said he didn’t want a Crusade. More importantly, who are we to go around tearing down _rookie_ Agents’ faith in the establishment? They’re the one who’ll have to carry on after us; if they don’t believe in the Service, the country won’t have much a Service left!”

“But _Blunt?_ After what he _did?_ ”

“Blunt’s over and done with. Jones and Colin are next in line for the Directorship -”

“Wait, what? Don’t bring me into this, Callum.”

Callum rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, we all know that the four - five of us, now that the Prime Minister knows Rider’s back, are the top choices for Director and Deputy Director. We’re the best in the business, and the most capable to lead the Service. More importantly, the entire cock-up with Rider and his boy was the result of the heads of SO being desk jockeys who hadn’t been in the field for over a decade. It’s a toss-up between Jones, who Downing Street knows, and Colin, who’s got the most experience and success in the field under his belt.

“Back on point, I _am_ angry with Sir over Ian, don’t think I’m not. Hell, I’m angry over Ian’s kid, too. But Alan Blunt has lead the Service for _seventeen years_ , and he’s done it _well._ Does he deserve the knighthood? Less worthy people have gotten it. Besides, that ball’s in Ian’s court.”

Callum crossed Ian’s office over to the window. He looked out over the streets of London, over the cars filled with people starting their day, and sighed. “In an ideal world, yeah, Sir would go to prison for what he’s done. We probably _all_ would. But Sir knows too much, holds power over too many people - and Libya, God, _Libya_ , if it weren’t for him, none of our boys would have come home. No one’s going to look at Libya and then turn around and condemn him for something unsavoury that gave us such a big win. If Ian had died - if Rider had died, then I’d be _all_ for sticking his head on a pike. But it’s not going to do anyone any good now. Rider’s back, Scorpia’s done for, and no madman has managed to blow up the country today.”

Liz scowled at Callum’s words, and then sighed. “I hate it when you use logic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. Opening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“My nephew is not an asset,”_ Ian hissed acidly, “This isn’t the KGB or World War II France, Sir. We are not in the midst of a total war, and we’re doing a piss poor job of defending the Realm if we need to enlist children to do our jobs for us.”

Inside Director Alan Blunt’s office, Ian sat opposite the Heads of Special Operations, idly twirling a pen as the Deputy Director flipped through a file.

“As you can see, Operation Horseman doesn’t have much to go on, yet, since Agents Daniels, MacAvoy, and White took out the Scorpia watchers. They have some information with unfortunate implications, but since Alex never talked about the things you made him do, they can’t do too much damage. From the looks of it, Cairo’s where everything’s meant to go down, but we’ll still need to track down any intel that made it out of that house.”

He’d spent the past two and a half hours detailing everything he had discovered from Scorpia over the last eight months. His captors had developed loose lips once they thought he’d been abandoned by his agency, and torture was a poor excuse for not gathering intelligence. Now, they were approaching the crux of the matter: his nephew Alex.

“Hard to imagine all of that was over a few old sculptures,” Blunt mused.

“A thousand ships were launched to war because of one woman’s face,” Ian replied, “At least the sculptures last longer. It wasn’t just the sculptures, it was crippling the British government, and restoring Scorpia’s reputation by killing my nephew. Which was stupid; history showed they can’t even hold out against _one_ Rider, what did they think would happen when they took on _two_?”

“Quite,” Jones murmured, “Alex...”

Ian leaned forward, a plastic smile on his face. “Yes, let’s talk about Alex.”

“We can understand your anger, Agent Rider -”

“I’m bloody furious, actually, Ma’am.” Ian crossed his arms, the fake smile slipping away into something cold. “You wilfully put my nephew, a _civilian_ and a _minor_ , in danger -”

“Alex performed most admirably on all his missions, and the world is safer for it,” Blunt replied blandly, “You trained him well.”

“I’m aware how well he did,” Ian snapped, “I’ve seen his files. And if you’ll pardon my language, Sir, fuck you, I most certainly did _not_ train him up as a spy. I don’t care that you abandoned me to Scorpia, but you had _no_ right to bring Alex into this world, much less to _blackmail_ him.”

“Perhaps. If you’re planning to threaten me, Agent Rider, please, do hurry up.”

Ian’s lips twisted, halfway between a grin and a snarl. “Like I said last night, Sir, I’m not here to threaten you. Just remind you of Algiers. And Omaha. And Sana’a.”

Blunt frowned, and Ian’s grin turned sharklike. “Come now, Sir, you didn’t think I’d leave all that information just lying around in my house, did you? I’ve got assets, protocols, to prevent that information from getting anywhere I don’t want it to. One word in the right ear... Well. I’m sure you don’t need me to spell it out.”

If Blunt were any other man, he might have sighed. But, he didn’t. “And what, exactly, is it you’re after?”

“I want all of Alex’s missions on record, sealed, and I want him to receive backpay and all the benefits of a full-fledged Agent.”

“I would love to do that for Alex after everything he’s done for the Service,” Blunt replied, “But the fact remains that he is _not_ a full-fledged Agent.”

Ian leaned back, uncrossing his arms in a show of nonchalance. “As I recall, in Sana’a, there were four MI6 operatives under your command, and two on loan from the DGSE -”

“Sana’a was seven years ago.”

“The Frogs have long memories. I remember Luc Fontaine expressing a lot of... interest over the Sana’a debacle when I talked to him before leaving for Cornwall.”

“A trust fund may be possible,” Blunt allowed, “This is all highly irregular, of course -”

“Pardon me, Sir, but you broke all the rules bringing in Alex.”

Blunt shuffled the papers on his desk for a moment, before replying, “Bringing Alex on board has saved this country four times over, and the world three times more. He is able to pass undetected where our other Agents are not, and his resourcefulness makes him an excellent asset -”

“ _My nephew is not an asset_ ,” Ian hissed acidly, “This isn’t the KGB or World War II France, Sir. We are not in the midst of a total war, and we’re doing a piss poor job of defending the Realm if we need to enlist children to do our jobs for us.”

Mrs. Jones swallowed the last of her peppermint and unwrapped another one. Ian made a mental note and continued on carefully. For all that he wanted Blunt to pay for what he’d done, Alan Blunt was already history. What mattered was the future.

“I won’t bore you with some impassioned ‘children-are-the-future’ speech, everyone in this room already knows that to be the truth.”

“If only our enemies shared your idealism, Agent Rider,” Blunt replied dryly, and Ian didn’t need to him continue to think of young Afghani boys strapping C4 to their chests because their fathers and uncles told them to kill infidels.

“I wasn’t aware stooping to the enemy’s level was protocol, Sir. The sooner you stop thinking of Alex as an _asset_ , the sooner we’ll make some progress.”

“As you say,” Blunt replied dismissively, “Though, if that were true, there would be no call to mention him and his missions, would there.”

Ian snorted. “Sir, if you disavow my nephew, I will walk into DGSE headquarters myself and tell Capitaine Rousse the truth about Sana’a and Agent Leonid. I love this country, Sir, but every time you have made me choose between it and Alex, I have _always_ chosen Alex.”

If Alan Blunt were any other man, his lips would have pursed in a scowl. Ian Rider had worked under him for fourteen years, and as a member of the Elite, the man only answered to him and Mrs. Jones. Blunt was intimately familiar with Ian Rider’s tells, and right now, he was not bluffing.

Ian leaned forward again. “You used Alex as an Agent - almost a black-bag operative - for nine months. It’s high time you gave him the protection that comes with that.”

“Protection can be arranged, of course, for a price.”

“The price is my silence on the cock-up in Sana’a.”

“And what’s to stop us from simply issuing a termination order, Agent Rider?”

“You mean apart from the other four Elites standing outside and the Agency that already thinks you tossed me out into the cold because you didn’t like me? I know you’re leaving soon, Sir, but I rather thought you’d like to have a pleasant last few days.”

An ugly look entered Blunt’s eyes, but he moved on. “Agent Rider, you’ve been legally dead for thirteen months. Given that your housekeeper plans to return to America to take care of her parents, you must realise that leaves Alex in a very delicate position. Restoring identities takes a lot of paperwork, a lot of cover stories and details to be laid out. That takes a considerable amount of time, and Alex, as a minor, cannot be left without a guardian. There is, of course, that lovely family in Glossop...”

Ian’s fists clenched instinctively in anger, and he tensed up, feeling the stitches in his bicep strain. Then he relaxed with a laugh. “You wouldn’t send Alex to those bastards, Sir. You do care about Alex - maybe not as much as you care about this country, or even whatever mission you’re focusing on, but you _do_ care about him - because he’s John’s son, and everyone knows how much you liked John. You won’t send Alex to Glossop, Sir, for the same reason you wouldn’t let me put a bullet in that man’s head when I was twenty-five. I’m not bluffing here, Sir. Do me a courtesy and don’t throw out cards you’re not willing to play.”

Ian swore he saw the corner of Mrs. Jones’ lips twitch upward as she looked between him and Blunt, but it could just have been a trick of the light.

The Director’s expression remained bland and uncaring, but Ian caught the glimmer of something in his eyes, something eager. A challenge.

This was where things got interesting, because they were moving out of the opening and into the middlegame.

“Sana’a for Alex’s protection -”

“And recompense.”

Blunt stared down Ian for a long moment, before continuing, “And recompense. Is that all?”

Ian pulled a flash drive from his pocket and set in on the table with a grin. “Not yet, Sir.”

* * *

“Jack,” Alex said curiously, looking at the plate he was washing, “How’d the plate get cracked?”

“Uh... well, you see...” Jack scratched her head sheepishly. “I brought up something that set Ian off, and he stabbed the plate.”

Alex’s eyebrows rose. “He _stabbed_ the plate so hard it _cracked_? Did you try and set him up on a date with that bloke from the fish and chips shop again?”

“Alex!” Jack lashed out at her charge with a wet towel, her cheeks faintly pink. That was a period of their lives she wasn’t very proud of. “For your information, we were talking about your Cousin Martin out in Glossop. He’s not... exactly a nice person.”

Alex’s brow furrowed. “Ian said he didn’t like him much when I asked as a kid, yeah.” Alex’s frown disappeared and he promptly grinned.

“What?”

Alex shook his head, trying to push his grin back down. “I - I guess I’m just happy. Really happy.”

Jack smiled softly. “Having Ian back... It’s unreal, isn’t it?”

Alex nodded, handing the plate to Jack to dry. “I didn’t realise how much I missed him, until he came back. It’s like... Ian and I, we used to do everything together. And then, after he... disappeared, I remember thinking I’d never see him again, hear him laugh, or mess about with him one some weekend evening instead of doing my homework. When I got the part for _Grease_... I remember when Ian took me to see Lion King, and I fell asleep because I’d had so much sugar right before. I woke up for a bit in the car, and he was humming along to one of the songs under his breath.”

Alex remembered sitting on the sofa until late at night whenever Ian returned from his longer trips, talking about school and what he’d been up to until his voice went hoarse. Ian always listened attentively, teased Alex gently over the more outrageous shenanigans he and Tom got up to, and talked him through his problems.

Having Ian home was the best feeling in the world.

Alex rested his hands on the edge of the sink. “Ian’s going to keep working for MI6, isn’t he?”

Jack sighed. “He said he was planning to.”

Alex’s smile dimmed. Jack saw, and bumped his shoulder lightly. “Hey, come on. Ian’s going to be home for several weeks at least, with that leg of his. Maybe even longer, if he has to get back into shape and healthy again. He’ll be around so much, you’ll get sick of him!”

Alex shook his head. “I don’t think that’s possible, Jack.”

“Oh, you mark my words - I can just see it now. Ian’s going to spend all day sitting on the couch, moaning about how he can’t do anything. Men like him are horrible patients, and he will drive us all bonkers.”

Alex burst out laughing. “Say that to his face, I dare you.”

Jack sniffed dramatically. “Ian Rider may be a spy, but he is _no match_ for the wrath of a housekeeper!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought? Comments? Concerns?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	7. Middlegame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You play a good game, Agent Rider, but let’s not forget that I still hold authority over you. You have your Jacks and Tens, I have my Kings and Queens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's ya girl, back on her bullshit. The one-chapter-a-day thing is rather spectacularly not going to work, but there is still more to come!
> 
> So, relax and enjoy!

Blunt looked at the flash drive dourly and Ian placed a picture next to it. “Ma’am, Sir, this is a flash drive detailing all of CIA and Mossad’s illegal black bag operations in Yemen during the three years preceding the Yemeni revolution. There are some documents on here that strongly imply that the Agency had a hand in destabilising the region.” Ian tapped the photo. “This man is one of my assets, a Yemeni diplomat who has managed to retain his power through the years. Man’s a little afraid of Colin, but he and I get on just fine. As I’m sure you’ve realised, he is currently one of the most powerful men in the new regime.”

“I take it you want my participation in these... negotiations, Agent Rider?” Jones asked, popping a peppermint in her mouth.

“I do, Ma’am. As Sir will not be here beyond the next few months, I need someone more permanent for the next... terms of my negotiation, if you will.”

“And that would be?”

Ian’s expression was calm and intent. “The spy world - _all of it_ \- leaves Alex alone, unless and until he willingly makes an approach himself.”

Blunt and Jones waited for Ian to continue.

“The information on this drive is the kind of leverage we’ve been after over the Agency for longer than I’ve been here.” Ian’s lips quirked up. “However, the intel can’t be accessed without a code. If anyone tries, the information is automatically sent to our diplomatic friend.”

“I see,” Blunt replied evenly, shifting files on his desk. “Did you know, Agent Rider, that your seat is directly in line with the rooftop of Merck International, 1.5 kilometres due south? This room is soundproofed, and there is a hidden entrance for a clean-up crew. It is especially useful for getting out of the building unseen, in case of a threat.”

Ian stiffened slightly.

“Losing our third best operative would be a tragedy, of course, but the Service has managed quite well these past months. Alex would be devastated by your second disappearance, and may even demand we search for you. He may even offer his services as payment. Your body would be found several weeks, perhaps months later, thanks to his efforts.”

Ian swallowed, tensing.

Blunt glanced at Jones who sighed. “By the time you even reach the front door, Agent Rider, there could be a sizeable deposit in your Swiss account which can later be traced back to Zeljan Kurst. Your accounts would promptly be frozen, all your communications intercepted, and your movements tracked. You wouldn’t be able to make it ten feet out of the city limits before you were taken in. Alex would be devastated, again, that his Uncle went against everything he was taught to believe in. For the people who killed his parents, and tried to kill him, no less. But if there’s one thing Alex has learned by now, it’s that spies lie.”

Blunt returned his gaze to Ian, looking every inch the deadly Head of Special Operations of British Intelligence he was. “You play a good game, Agent Rider, but let’s not forget that I still hold authority over you. You have your Jacks and Tens, I have my Kings and Queens.”

Ian exhaled slowly. That’s right, Jack was still a target, just as much as Alex was. At least she couldn’t be touched once she was back on American soil.

“You won’t burn me. I have too much to offer the Service.”

“Perhaps we’re getting off topic,” Mrs. Jones cut in, rejoining the conversation. “No one here is denying your talents, Agent Rider, but you’re asking for continued blanket protection of your nephew without constructing a new identity for him. That’s a fairly considerable allocation of resources for one boy. You’re going to need to offer more than implications a good black ops team from any Agency can erase.”

Ian swallowed and suddenly realised the heavy losses he could ultimately suffer in this battle. Blunt and Jones weren’t Heads of SO for nothing; desk jockeys or not, they were the best of the best. “Is there something you have in mind?”

The corner of Blunt’s lips twitched upwards for half a second, and Ian recognised the tell - it always preceded the ‘you asked for this’ portion of particularly unsavoury missions. Blunt pushed forward a file, and _of course_ he would happen to have it on hand, as if he knew his meeting with Ian would come to this point.

Ian opened the file and bit down hard on his cheek to keep from blurting out ‘This is a _suicide_ mission.’ “This isn’t just a black bag operation, Sir, Ma’am. This is…”

Ian trailed off, feeling exhaustion crash into him and steal the words away. This was his future for Alex’s, that’s what it was. He exhaled softly. “Alright. Assuming I succeed, but don’t make it back, what guarantee do I have that Alex will still be protected?”

“You’ll just have to trust us, Agent Rider.”

Ian scoffed. “With all due respect, you did just abandon me to the most ruthless terrorist group in the world.”

He stared at his superiors, shoulders squared and eyes clear. “Make no mistake, Sir, Ma’am, I love this country and I love the Service. But I will call account for what has been done to me and mine.”

“No matter the cost?” Mrs. Jones asked, as if curious, as if she didn’t already know the answer.

“No matter the cost.”

There was something very like victory in Blunt’s eyes and Ian forced himself to calm down. He may be desperate and angry, but it wouldn’t do to show that. He survived thirteen months in a Scorpia prison camp. He had brought terrorist cells across the world to their knees. One man past his prime wasn’t going to deter him.

Ian’s mind raced through his options. If he completed the mission himself, he would need to wait several weeks, until his leg healed enough for him to move about without clunking. Those were weeks Alex would be unprotected - though he’d still be around his nephew, at least. However, if he contracted the job out to any of his assets or the people who owed him favours, it would be done much faster - there was just no guarantee it would be done cleanly, or even successfully. Blunt wouldn’t care how it got done, as long as there were no ties back to him or MI6.

“You will have to make your own provisions, of course,” Blunt continued, proving Ian right. “Once the task is completed, we can begin thinking about Alex’ future.”

Ian’s eyebrow rose. “ ‘Begin thinking about,’ Sir? No, if you want me to go through with this, then I’m going to need a plan of action -“

“Agent Rider, you seem to be under some misconceptions on who holds the power in this argument -“

“I don’t think so, Sir,” Ian replied firmly. “You want me to clean up some of MI6’s old messes. I want my nephew protected. I have skills you need, you have influence that I need. What it comes down to -“ Ian leaned forward, ignoring the tightness in his chest, “- Is how badly do you need this cleaned up? Because there are others I can turn to to protect Alex.”

“I don’t think you will, Agent Rider,” Mrs. Jones corrected, “Because the topic wouldn’t have come up at all if you were willing to go to… your other sources. You asked Director Blunt not to throw out cards he wasn’t willing to play, perhaps you should extend the same courtesy.”

Touché.

Ian’s gaze dropped down to Mrs. Jones’ lap, to see if she was worrying the wrapper of another mint, her usual tell. She wasn’t. His bluff had been called, and there was no room for a counter-bluff. Ian swallowed and breathed slowly.

“Alright. Let’s see if we can’t negotiate our way through this impasse.”

* * *

“Alright, Desai?”

Sonia Desai, a young woman with dark skin and darker hair, looked up from her computer and crossed her arms. “What do you want, Daniels?”

Ben leaned against the side of her desk and flashed her a grin. “What makes you think I want anything? Can’t a bloke stop by and say hello to his classmate every now and again?”

“Except with you, it’s more the ‘again,’ “ Sonia replied, but there was no bite to her words. “How’s bodyguard duty? I didn’t think you cocked up the Brighton mission that badly.”

“The Brighton mission went _perfectly_ , thank you,” Ben replied eyebrows raised in mock outrage, “I should think it a promotion to spend so much time in close quarters with the Elite.”

Sonia smirked. “Bennet still won’t go out with you.”

“So what do you think of Newcastle’s chances this weekend?” Ben continued, his voice slightly raised over Sonia’s barb.

The Indian woman scoffed. “If you want to talk sports with me, you can turn right around, mister. Come on, then, let’s have it. What are you after?”

Ben shook his head and leaned in. “I may have heard some things around about restructuring SO…”

Sonia shook her head. “You and half the office that voted Labour.”

Ben’s eyebrows rose.

Sonia resumed typing. “The new Prime Minister, Cross, is big on transparency and efficiency.”

Ben groaned. “Oh, God, not another push to make Special Operations -“

“Oh, no, transparency _within_ the government. Less red tape keeping departments from sharing actionable information, more collaboration, that sort of thing. Nothing yet on the public front.”

Sonia paused and glanced around, more out of habit than any real concern, and leaned towards Ben. “I’ve heard it’s not just us, either. Thames House, Vauxhall Cross, Beacons, even GCHQ… _everybody’s_ come under scrutiny.”

“Brecon Beacons? Is he _mad?_ Never mind that. I can understand taking one arm of national security to task, but all of them? Is he going to start in on the RAF, too?”

Sonia bit her lip, her gaze drifting up the bullpen to the door to Director Blunt’s office. “Might be. You know these politician types.”

Ben narrowed his eyes slightly as Sonia dropped the conversation and stared resolutely at her computer monitor.

“Sonia…”

“What?”

“There’s something more, isn’t there?”

“Of course not! No, it’s nothing.”

“ _Sonia…_ ”

“Oh, no, I know that tone - you’re not getting another _word_ out of me, Daniels.”

“Come on, Sonia,” Ben cajoled, his expression disarming, “It’s just me.”

Sonia huffed. “Just you, indeed. Don’t you bat those pretty blue eyes at me, mate, I know all your tricks.”

Ben’s lips twitched up into a grin. “I’ll find out what actually happened with Rider in Boston.”

Sonia froze.

Ben’s grin widened and he pressed his advantage. “I’m going to be babysitting Rider for the next couple weeks, and you know he’s going to be drugged up to the gills.”

The other spy quirked an eyebrow. “If you could get intel like that out of _Ian Rider_ , you wouldn’t need to be talking to me.”

“Sonia, you know me - when have I ever let you down?”

The blonde gave him a long look.

“You know I’m good for it,” Ben pressed.

“Oh, alright, _fine._ But only so you’ll leave me in peace, you understand? And if you breathe a _word_ of this, to _anyone_ -“

“My lips are sealed, I will take your secrets with me to the grave,” the ex-SAS soldier replied promptly.

Sonia rolled her eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. And you didn’t hear this from me, but all these changes? The name ‘Rider’ may have been thrown about in the making of them.”

Ben’s eyebrows shot into his hairline. “Rider? As in -“

“As _in_ , ‘This conversation is over, thank you for deigning to speak with me, Sonia.’”

Ben inclined his head at Sonia’s pointed glare, his expression thoughtful. “Well, well…” He gave her a half-bow. “Thank you for _deigning_ to speak with me, _Maharani_.”

Sonia waved him off. “Oh, go on with you, some of us have actual _work_ to do!”

* * *

Back in Blunt’s office, Ian found himself struggling to keep his head above water in their negotiations. Blunt and Jones were adamant on their terms - well, Blunt was, Jones seemed to be entertaining herself playing Devil’s Advocate, sometimes supporting Ian, sometimes supporting Blunt.

What it boiled down to was this: In return for Alex’s future protection, effective immediately, Ian would become an intelligence ghost, an operative who was off the books and completed his missions with no ties to MI6. Ghosts themselves weren’t rare, but they had short lives, as they were almost permanently in the field.

Ian stared at his superiors, stunned. His chest ached with the devastation he couldn’t afford to show, and he felt cold all over.

“I would barely see Alex again.”

“An unfortunate sacrifice.”

Alex would hate him.

Ian could see his future spiralling out in front of him, one of barely being home, and never being there when Alex needed him. Alex would worry at first, knowing the kind of work Ian was involved in, but then he would get frustrated. He’d get tired of Ian always putting the job first, would want to know why Ian didn’t just quit. Ian could never tell him, of course, even when it was clear his job was chipping away at his soul. It would be more lies and secrets, and Alex would hate that Ian would never trust him with the whole truth. He would get frustrated and bitter, until one day, he gave Ian an ultimatum: him, or the job.

This time, Ian would pick the job, and Alex would hate him.

But he’d be safe.

Mrs. Jones’ fist tightened around the mint in her hand as she watched the light die out in Ian’s eyes.

Ian’s expression melted away into a blank mask. “I’ll do it.”

The victory was clear in Blunt’s eyes. This wasn’t about Alex anymore, this was _punishment_ for Ian having survived Scorpia and coming home. Well, he still had cards to play, still had leverage over Blunt and Jones to use. He may have been hit, but he wasn’t beaten.

“Before you barter away the rest of your future, Agent Rider, I suggest we finish your debrief,” Mrs. Jones cut in, and Ian frowned internally. He wasn’t sure whether Mrs. Jones was on his side or Blunt’s - though that was probably the point. She knew she was next in line for Directorship, and Ian would be staying in the Service, while Blunt would not.

This would probably go a lot easier if he wasn’t down the street from Death’s door.

“I want in on the Scorpia investigation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. Endgame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Agent Rider, I’m aware you tend to operate under the assumption that you’re invincible,” Mrs. Jones continued, and this time, her voice actually was stern, “But rest assured, you will be of no use to anyone, in any capacity, if you don’t stop thinking of yourself as James Bond.”

“I want in on the Scorpia investigation.”

Neither Blunt nor Jones’ expression changed, but when he looked at Mrs. Jones, Ian was reminded of the way the nurse at Eton would raise an eyebrow and purse her lips when he came in bruised after yet another fight with the school bullies. She had always been singularly unimpressed with his exploits, lecturing him repeatedly about not getting himself killed before he graduated.

And, as he had when he was thirteen and scrappy, he set his jaw and bulldozed on.

“Agent Rider -“

“I have brought you more actionable intel on Scorpia than we have had in _years_ ,” Ian insisted, “I deserve the chance to see this through.”

“You are also malnourished, significantly injured, and of unknown psychological fitness. You are a liability,” Blunt replied without missing a beat.

Ian narrowed his eyes and considered retorting that he was managing a several-hour-long high-stakes negotiation on his “unknown psychological fitness,” but considering the outcome of the latest phase of negotiations, that probably wouldn’t be a point in his favour.

“Sir, I have done more for you under worse circumstances.”

Mrs. Jones unwrapped another mint, and Blunt stared at Ian impatiently, waiting for him to continue.

“Prague, weaponised anthrax. The average life expectancy with that strain was less than fifteen hours, even with ciproflaxin. The antidote wasn’t even ready until fourteen and a half. The aphasia had set in before that, and I still took down the madmen responsible before they could detonate the capsules on the subway.”

Mrs. Jones had a pinched look about her eyes; she had been coordinating the op on the ground. Come to think of it, she had been against his involvement then, too.

“Prague is not something we consider the standard for our operations, Agent Rider,” the woman replied in a tone approaching stern.

“Prague was also one of our most successful strikes against al Qaeda.”

Anthrax-induced temporary brain damage aside, Ian remembered Prague with great clarity. He had been there on an interagency information security conference, when the Ministry of Health had sent out a highest-priority alert: several patients exhibiting symptoms of anthrax had been admitted to local hospitals. The BIS - Czech national intelligence agency - was rather useless at the time, more content to point fingers at every other Schengen nation than provide any actionable intel. Ian had harangued the Agent in charge to put together a decent task force and essentially spearheaded the entire operation - he wasn’t an Elite for nothing.

They’d pulled every available operative from every agency in the city, Czech or not, and sifted through God only knew how much chatter. Terrorist cells, hospitals, biotech firms… all while the victims were dropping like flies. The French had sent over some of their best from Paris Polytechnic to help the Ministry of Health synthesise an antidote, but it was Ian and his men who were the boots on the ground, searching for the people responsible.

They’d succeeded of course, found out that a scientist spurned from the intelligence and national security community for his radical ideas was working with a terrorist group to unleash the attack _he_ had predicted would come, to galvanise Europe into turning to him for aid. They’d found his home, and Ian being the leader, had taken point and been the first one to enter through the back.

Thirty seconds later, there was a crash and a gunshot, and Ian had slammed the door shut in his second-in-command’s face. Sharing the back room - by appearances, a laboratory - with him was a man, Middle Eastern in appearance, with a bullet hole through his shoulder. On the floor between them was a broken vial and a dusting of white powder. A fan was whirring merrily in the corner.

They’d expected terrorists, but they hadn’t expected the scientist to be quite so insane as to synthesise weaponised anthrax _in his own house._

If Ian had his way, he would have been quietly decontaminated and returned to work, since they knew the strain wasn’t communicable. Unfortunately, his subordinates didn’t share his views, and word made it back to Mrs. Jones. She’d flown in immediately and taken over control of the operation, while banishing him to the hospital.

Ian had respectfully disagreed and returned to the field as soon as he was able. They had the lab; the scientists were more than capable of making an antidote without him laying about not being useful.

He remembered the fever, remembered constantly checking his own temperature to see it creeping up towards 105ºF, remembered the coughs and the trouble breathing, the muscle fatigue, all while running across the city tracking down terrorists at full health. He remembered fighting through the blind terror when he lost his words, when he resorted crude gestures to warn the other Agents they were walking into an ambush.

He could barely hold up a gun when he tackled one of the terrorists carrying the anthrax capsules, wrenching the bag away as agents and military police stormed the scene.

He’d survived that, he could handle Scorpia while recuperating with access to the best medical care England had to offer.

“Prague was a special case,” Blunt dismissed, “This office has no use for an Agent who continually drains our resources by landing himself in the hospital every five minutes because he keeps aggravating his injuries.”

“Agent Rider, I’m aware you tend to operate under the assumption that you’re invincible,” Mrs. Jones continued, and this time, her voice actually was stern, “But rest assured, you will be of no use to anyone, in any capacity, if you don’t stop thinking of yourself as James Bond.”

Ian felt a faint stirring of amusement. Oh yes, quite like the nurse at Eton. “I’m not asking to take point, I just want to be kept in the loop. This is my intel, I deserve at least that.”

Ian leaned forward lips tilted up in a smirk. “And, let’s be honest here - I may not have been willing to go to those ‘outside sources’ for Alex’s safety, but we all know I have no problems going to them to get in on an operation.”

That much was true, and the irritation in Blunt’s eyes sealed it. It was an exercise in futility keeping Ian out of an op he wanted in on, he’d find out about it through other channels and manage to wind up integral to its success anyway. One of the perks of being an Elite was that people stopped blocking his access on the missions he was interested in.

Though that could also just have been because of him.

“Look, you’ve already made it clear that I’d be a “drain on resources” if I go out into the field and land myself back in the hospital - not that I _would_ , mind. But I’m just as useful to you off the field as I am on it. I haven’t succeeded all these years just by being really good at shooting and hitting things.”

Mrs. Jones’ teeth clacked against her mint, an unusual occurrence. “If,” she replied, and Ian knew he’d won, “ _If_ , after a thorough review of your status, you are deemed fit to be anywhere near an active operation, then someone from the Elites or Agent Daniels will contact you with more information.”

And if he happened to access the information he wanted covertly from the other Elites, or even Daniels, well, then, no one would be any the wiser.

Ian’s lips quirked up. “Careful, Mrs. Jones. With those kinds of provisions, someone might get the idea you actually like me.”

Mrs. Jones stared him down flatly and Blunt took over. “I suggest we wrap this up, Agent Rider.”

* * *

Ben looked up from the file he was reading as the door to Director Blunt’s office swung open, and Ian Rider hobbled out. He was leaning more heavily on his crutches than he had this morning, but otherwise, he looked no worse for the wear.

“Up and at ‘em, Daniels, what use are you to anyone lounging about like that?”

Ben rolled his eyes, the phrase ‘crotchety abusive old man’ running through his mind, but he didn’t bite back in light of the teasing glint in Ian’s eyes. Bodyguard duty was definitely both a promotion and a demotion.

“So,” he began, falling into step beside Ian.

“So?”

“You had a _five-hour_ meeting with Blunt. The _last_ Agent to have a five-hour meeting with Director Blunt ate his gun two weeks later.”

Ian snorted. “That is a filthy rumour. I would know, I was there when Colin started it.”

Ben shook his head. “Somehow, I’m less surprised than I should be.”

“You know what they say, Daniels - never meet your heroes.”

Ben scoffed, pushing a door open for the veteran Agent. “Don’t flatter yourself. The others are holding court in the cafeteria, you up for it?”

Ian grunted faintly, adjusting his hold on his crutches. “Think they’ll have any shepherd’s pie at this hour?”

Ben nodded eyeing Ian carefully. “Should do.”

“Stop looking at me as if I’m about to drop dead, Daniels.”

“Well, you might.”

“I’m a bit surprised you haven’t carted me back to St. Dominic’s already.”

Ben’s lips twisted wryly. “Bennet wanted to, but Farnesworth and White convinced her to wait until you’d had some food in you.”

“Smart of them, I’m starving.”

* * *

Back in his office, Director Alan Blunt watched as his Deputy Director gathered files together with a pointed sort of primness. There were very few times she did this, and they all ended with the closest things to arguments the two of them had.

“Is something bothering you, Mrs. Jones?”

The dark-haired woman stilled and swallowed her mint. “I have stood by you for a lot over the years, but that was badly done, Alan.”

Blunt stared at her coolly. “Giving in to sentiment, are we?”

“This isn’t _sentiment_ , this is loyalty!”

Alan Blunt may have been the one who oversaw their division’s missions, but Tulip Jones was the one who oversaw their _operatives._ She was the one who worked alongside the men and women they sent out into the field, assessing them, preparing them. She learned their stories, of families and lovers and futures. She heard the words they lived by, about allies and assets and debt and loyalty.

And maybe, after seventeen years, it wasn’t just the desk she sat behind that shaped her.

“Ian Rider is a subordinate,” Blunt reminded her, “Just as much as Daniels and Williams and Croyden.”

Tulip Jones wasn’t the only one who knew the names of every Agent in the building.

“I don’t think this has anything to do with Agent Rider being a subordinate.” Mrs. Jones retorted, “I think it has everything to do with the fact that you never quite forgave him for not being his brother.”

Blunt’s eyes widened fractionally. It was entirely unlike Mrs. Jones to make such an emotionally charged statement.

“Mrs. Jones, I don’t think it’s really your place to say -“

“Thirteen months,” the woman replied, cutting through Blunt’s admonishment, “Scorpia had him for _thirteen months_. We could have found him, we could have brought him home.”

“We could have,” Blunt allowed blandly, “We could also have wasted months of manpower and resources and lost several Agents’ lives had Scorpia ever found out, Agents who could have otherwise run successful operations across the world and stopped other threats. We certainly wouldn’t have the kind of intelligence we have now, to take them out for good. We’re not just one step ahead, we have the potential to be _many_ steps ahead.”

“So the ends justify the means.”

Blunt looked at Jones levelly. “They always do, in our business. You might want to stop worrying so much about the past and focus on the present. Agent Rider endured an incredibly high-pressure debriefing for five hours, that’s sure to have taken a toll on him.”

* * *

In the lobby of the Bank, Ian proved his superior right as he stopped abruptly in the midst of a conversation with his colleagues. He frowned slightly, his jaw working as he tried to speak.

“Rider?”

“I…”

Ian’s crutches cluttered to the floor.

“Ian!”

Colin swore as Ian’s knees buckled, his eyes sliding out of focus. As his arm slid under Ian’s shoulders, he felt more than heard Ian’s breath stutter in his chest, air never making it past his throat.

“Callum -“

“I got him,” the younger man said, kicking the crutches away and bracing Ian on his other side. “Someone get a medic!”

“This is Royal and General, not Vauxhall Cross,” Taylor muttered, as Liz started snapping at the gathering employees. “We don’t even have an infirmary.”

“Calling an ambulance,” Ben reported.

“Pulse is high and thready,” Callum reported, his fingers at Ian’s neck and wrist. “He’s heading for tachycardia.”

“Rider, you arse,” Taylor grumbled, “After all that trouble we went to get you back, you’re going to die on us inside SO walls?”

“How far out is the ambulance, Daniels?”

“ETA minute-twenty.”

“Clear the area,” Liz ordered, “This is MI6, not a circus! You there - Mark’s rookie, go notify Blunt and Jones.”

“Yes, Ma’am!”

There was a flurry of activity, and Callum caught the tail end of someone commenting that ‘Riders had bad luck with the lobby of Royal and General.’

“So it’s true Alex got shot right outside the building?”

“That was Alex?” Ben asked distractedly.

“According to his files, it was,” Taylor replied. “Can we move him?”

Colin was about to reply, when the shrill cry of an ambulance made it to their ears.

“No need, “ Colin said as the paramedics burst in, “I’m going to ride down with him. Liz, Callum, follow us. Taylor, Daniels, go pick up Alex.”

“On it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!


	9. St. Dominic's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Alan Hayward grumbled under his breath as he received some strange looks from the nurses passing by. The chart in his hands read “Rider, Ian L.” in bold black letters. The long list of patient injuries showed malnourishment, lacerations, bruising, fractures, and low-level inflammation. And the newest addition: a bleed into his lungs.
> 
> “This is what happens when you sign out of a hospital AMA, Ian,” he sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another exciting installment of Is Ian Rider Aware He Is Not James Bond: The Game Show.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider; Anthony Horowitz does.
> 
> Please, read and enjoy!

Halfway across the city from Royal and General Bank, Alex was lounging in his best friend’s room, settled in Tom’s desk chair as Tom lay across his bed.

“I think you’re having me on.”

“Was I having you on when I told you I worked for MI6?”

“Well - no.”

Alex crossed his arms amusedly as Tom scowled. “But, seriously, _Ian?_ Your _dead Uncle_?”

“Not dead anymore,” Alex replied brightly.

“So, let me get this straight,” Tom said, sitting up with a groan, “Yesterday, your dead -“

“Not dead anymore!”

“ - Formerly dead, fine - Uncle Ian Rider -“

“You know, he hates that word.”

“ - Alex, shut up, or I will deck you.”

Alex grinned and Tom huffed. “ _Anyway._ Yesterday, Ian Rider turned up at your house, kicked the heads of MI-6 out and revealed that he wasn’t dead after all, but had been held captive by a terrorist group, the same terrorist group _who shot you_ \- are you even _allowed_ to tell me this? Am I going to have to sign the Official Secrets Act again? Are men in suits and sunglasses going to come down and erase -“

“Tom.”

“ _Alex._ ”

“That was a pretty good summary, though,” Alex replied, “And I don’t think you’ll have to sign the Act again, it’s not as if Ian’s in hiding. Half our neighbours have already seen him.”

“What are they telling people about his disappearance?”

Alex shrugged, his expression turning distant. “No idea. Ian went down to the Bank today, they’ll probably figure it out there.”

Tom sat up with a small groan, grimacing at the pain shooting up his injured arm. “Wonder what they’ll tell people. I mean, Ian had a funeral, and a public burial, they can’t just erase that - or does MI6 have time machines already? They do, don’t they!”

Alex laughed. “No, Tom, no time machines.”

“Not like you could tell me if they did, anyway,” Tom grumbled. “Oh! Maybe he witnessed a crime and was kidnapped!”

“I think you’ve been sitting in front of the telly too long, mate.”

“I’m off school for two weeks; I intend to enjoy it as much as humanly possible.”

“By what, watching _Eastenders_ and CBeebies?”

“ _Tracy Beaker_ is on Blue Peter,” Tom replied archly.

“Eleven-year-old girls watch _Tracy Beaker_ , you nutter.”

“There was a Doctor Who marathon on BBC Four, though, that was pretty entertaining.”

Alex shook his head amusedly. “That explains the time machine idea.”

“Well, it’s not like I can do much else with my time… Hey, can I come over your place? It’s got to be better than turning up the telly loud so the sound effects cover up the sound of Mum and Dad arguing.”

Alex raised his eyebrow dubiously. “I thought you swore you were never coming over after Ian made you work on Spanish grammar the last time?”

Tom opened his mouth to argue and then paused. Alex was right, he _had_ said that. He’d been skiving off a detention, with some story about being sick and his parents not wanting him to stay home alone, so could he please hang out with Alex until they got back? Looking back, it was clear Ian hadn’t bought any of it, but let Tom stay anyway - and work on some of the nastiest Spanish conjugations he’d ever seen.

“Still better than ‘Who Loses Parent of the Year Worse’ out here.”

“Yeah, alright.”

“How is Ian, anyway?” Tom asked, fidgeting, “I mean, with the whole not being dead thing?”

“He’s got a broken leg, and a lot of bandages. He was pretty up and active this morning, though.”

Alex fell silent. He had infiltrated Scorpia, he knew what their methods were like. Over a year under their thumb had to have left Ian with more than a broken leg and a few cuts, right?

“Do you think he’ll finally tell you about his missions?”

Alex blinked. “He’ll what?”

Tom waved his good arm enthusiastically. “His missions! I mean, you know the truth, right? And you’re practically a spy yourself.”

Alex sighed. “I don’t think it works that way, Tom. I mean, he’s an _actual_ spy, and I’m just… God, why are we talking about MI-6 again, anyway? I’m done with them.”

“Yeah, but Ian…” Tom trailed off awkwardly. He knew that look on Alex’s face, he’d seen it before whenever he’d brought up MI-6 in the last few months. If he didn’t drop the subject, Alex would likely shut him down and storm off. “Sure, mate. Whatever. Anyway, what d’you think Newcastle’s chances are this weekend?”

“With their defence right now? Sunderland could beat them.”

“Oh, come on…” Tom’s eyes lit up as he and Alex descended into a familiar argument about the state of the football league.

* * *

Taylor frowned as she and Ben approached the house, listening to the loud argument coming from within. “You sure this is the right place?”

“This is the address Jack gave us,” Ben replied, knocking on the door.

Taylor scoffed. “They’re not even going to hear that, Daniels.”

As if on cue, the door swung open and a short, dark-haired woman demanded angrily, “What?!”

“Mrs. Harris?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Ben Daniels, Ma’am,” Ben replied calmly, “I understand Alex Rider is here?”

Mrs. Harris frowned. “Alex?”

“Yes, Alex,” a man snapped, coming up behind her, “You know, your son’s best friend, sitting up in his room right now?”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Mrs. Harris snapped back. “You know, this is the reason -“

“Oh, here we go again -“

Taylor and Ben exchanged glances as the couple devolved into an argument in front of them. Mr. and Mrs. Harris stormed away, bickering, leaving the door wide open.

“That counts as an authorisation to enter, right?” Taylor asked, “I hate the whiny civil-liberties types.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “How do our higher-ups put up with you, Farnesworth?”

“Paracetamol and antacids,” Taylor replied flippantly, “I’ll go grab the boy, you deal with the Power Couple over there. You’re a better people person.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say most people were,” Ben muttered.

He needn’t have worried, the Harrises were still completely involved in their argument by the time Taylor returned, Alex and Tom trailing behind her.

“Ben? What’s going on?”

Ben glanced between Alex and Tom, who was looking at his parents disgustedly.

“Oh, it’s fine. Tom knows - about everything,” Alex replied quickly.

Ben was suddenly struck by the fact that Alex was in fact a teenage boy, not a real spy. The giant, impulsive breach of security was proof. He sighed. “Alex, Ian’s been taken to St. Dominic’s.”

* * *

“Oh, my God, I’m going to kill him.”

Dr. Alan Hayward grumbled under his breath as he received some strange looks from the nurses passing by. The chart in his hands read “Rider, Ian L.” in bold black letters. The long list of patient injuries showed malnourishment, lacerations, bruising, fractures, and low-level inflammation. And the newest addition: a bleed into his lungs.

Knowing Ian, he’d had trouble breathing, but hadn’t thought anything of it. Or it had been subsumed by the pain from all his other injuries, because God knew that man never took the full dose of his pain medication.

Idiot was lucky he hadn’t gone into cardiac arrest. Or picked up some opportunistic infection while he was immunocompromised.

“This is what happens when you sign out of a hospital AMA, Ian,” he sighed.

“Dr. Hayward?”

Alan turned to see a dark-haired man and a blonde woman striding towards him, with a familiar blond teenage boy between them.

“Alex! What can I do for you?”

Alex looked at Ben, who stepped forward, pulling Alan aside and speaking in a low voice. “Dr. Hayward, I’m Agent Daniels, my colleagues came in with Agent Rider earlier.”

Alan turned back to the teen sharply. “… I cannot believe I didn’t make that connection sooner. Alex was listed as having no living relatives.”

Ben inclined his head, privately noting how familiar the doctor was with Alex. “It’s complicated.”

“With Special Operations, isn’t it always?”

Alan turned back to Alex and Taylor. “Ian’s in surgery right now, the other Agents are waiting outside the operating room. I can take you there, if you’d like.”

Taylor nodded. “Thank you, we’d appreciate that.”

As they navigated the wide corridors of St. Dominic’s, Alan fell into step beside Alex. “And how are you holding up, lad?”

“I’m fine.”

Alan resisted the urge to cast him a dubious look. With Ian Rider as his Uncle, he had a feeling the word ‘fine’ wasn’t defined the same way for Alex as everyone else. “No lingering chest pains? No stiffness in your shoulders or weakness, numbness, or throbbing in your ankle?”

Alex hesitated for a second, remembering the pain in his chest warning him of the shooting at his school, and then shook his head. “No, everything’s fine.”

“Alright. You have my number in case your injury acts up.”

“Yeah.”

Well, he’d tell Ian to keep an eye on his nephew. It was unlikely that Alex’s past injuries would act up now if it hadn’t yet, but the human body was as frail as it was resilient.

“… Dr. Hayward?”

“Yes, Alex?”

“What… happened to Ian? Ben and Taylor wouldn’t say.”

Alan glanced at the two spies walking behind them, walking a careful enough distance away so as not to intrude upon his and Alex’s conversation. “He started bleeding into his lungs. Nothing too deadly, we caught it in time. He’ll be fine.”

Alex sucked in a sharp breath. “What about his previous injuries?”

Alan glanced down at the chart in his hands. MISO had ordered Ian’s stay be kept under wraps, with no press or unauthorised visitors, which was standard for all operatives sent to St. Dominic’s. Patient records were, of course, classified, and standard protocol was on the lines of ‘deny, deny, deny.’ Someone was _supposed_ to come down with an appropriate cover story, as they had with Alex’s “appendicitis,” but with Ian’s unexpected arrival and him checking himself out early, that little detail seemed to have fallen through the cracks.

“Well, you know I can’t share that information with you without authorisation -“

“He’s my _father’s brother!_ ”

"I know, Alex," Alan said gently, "And this must be a frightening and stressful time for you, but I promise you, he is in the best of care here."

Alex swallowed, staring determinedly ahead. “But Ian - he didn’t _say._ ”

“I’ve treated Ian for over a decade now, and medical disclosure has never been a particular talent of his.”

Alex looked up at Alan. “I thought you were a paediatrician… Is that why MI6 made you my doctor? Because you’re Ian’s?”

“Oh, who knows why they do anything,” Alan replied, aiming for a lightness he didn’t quite feel, “But I know they like to keep things… In-house. And, here we are.”

The three other Agents looked up at Hayward’s arrival, and Alan’s pager beeped.

“I need to head out, there’s an emergency in cardio. I’m sure you’ll be in good hands, Alex.”

Alex nodded dully as the doctor strode away. Alex settled into a seat between two of the other Agents, feeling like they were statues with how still and quiet they were. Alex cleared his throat. “How long has he been in there?”

“Bit less than an hour,” the tallest man, a blond, replied. “My name’s Colin, I don’t think we were properly introduced before.” Colin gestured around him. “This Callum, Liz, Taylor, and I believe you know Ben already.”

Alex nodded. “You all… work… with Ian? At the Bank?”

The spies looked to Colin, who seemed to have been elected leader and spokesperson. “After a fashion, yes.”

“Ian and the rest of us, Daniels excepted, are solo agents,” Liz explained, shifting in her seat to face Alex fully, “We don’t often work with others.”

“Then how do you know… Why are you all here?”

“Well, it’s not every day Ian Rider comes back from the dead -”

“There was that one time in Morocco -“ Taylor piped in.

“ _On British soil_ ,” Liz continued, shooting Taylor a dirty glare, “We just want to make sure everything turns out alright.”

Callum leaned over on Alex’s other side, whispering, “Don’t listen to Taylor, her purpose in life is to stir trouble.”

“Oi!”

“No, I’m serious,” Callum continued, mischief in his eyes, “You know when people say ‘it’s complicated’? It’s usually Taylor’s fault.”

Taylor paused, lips pursed slightly. “… Well, can’t really argue with that.”

Alex’s lips twitched faintly with stirrings of amusement. “It’s just, I thought you were supposed to have partners? The CIA had their Agents working in teams when I worked with them. And ASIS -“

All five adults stiffened, and Liz put her hand on Alex’s shoulder, stopping him. “Careful, Alex. You don’t know who might be listening, even in a hospital.”

Further conversation was halted as the doors to the operating room swung open, and the surgeon stepped out. Alex shot up from his seat. “What happened to Ian?”

The surgeon glanced between Alex and Colin, who nodded. “Agent Rider is stable. He’s being taken up to the intensive care unit, Room 412. Dr. Hayward will be able to tell you when you can see him.”

Alex ran his fingers through his hair, and Liz kept her hand at his back in support. “Thank you.”

* * *

Ian fought his way to consciousness, trying to tear through the fog and fatigue weighing him down.

Pain medication, it had to be. It always left him feeling like he was underwater, swimming against the current.

He blinked his eyes open to see white and peach and grey, resolving into Alex’s worried face, and Alan Hayward’s less than impressed one.

“… ‘Lo, Alex.”

“Ian…” Alex reached forward and clasped his uncle’s hand.

Ian pushed himself up, and Alan promptly warned, “Stay _down_ , Rider, or I will put you in restraints.”

Several heads turned to Alan, who didn’t look up from scribbling on Ian’s chart. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Ian smirked weakly. “I knew you just wanted me for my body.”

Alan snorted and checked the monitors around Ian. “That line hasn’t worked on me in the nearly two decades you’ve known me, it’s not going to work now. And before you start, _yes_ , I’m lowering your morphine dose.”

“Cheers.”

Alan shook his head, muttering under his breath as he ran through basic vitality checks. “You look fine for now, I’ll be back to check on you in about half an hour. You know the drill if anything comes up.”

Ian raised his free hand, holding up a small remote. Alan nodded. “Good. Half an hour, the rest of you. Contrary to what my patient will claim, he needs his rest.”

Taylor smirked as Alan left, and clapped her hands. “If I were you, Alex, I would make good use of this golden opportunity - just think of all the blackmail you can get when he’s high on morphine!”

“Farnesworth,” Ian growled.

“You should ask him about Boston, lad,” Callum prompted, “That’s not super-classified.”

“Was that the one with Travis, the cow-and-tweezer-catapult, and Harvard?” Ben asked with a grin. “The teachers at the Academy always get this really pinched look on their faces whenever anyone asks about it.”

“… The what?” Alex asked, disbelieving. Ian turned an equally bewildered expression on the other Agents.

“Oh, nothing,” Taylor replied flippantly, “There was just this Agent, Travis, who didn’t think he could get into Harvard University, so Ian threw him over using a catapult made with - what was it Kenneth said - ‘cows and tweezers and no laws of physics.'”

Alex stared incredulously at his Uncle, who groaned and rubbed his brow. "Do you people even hear the words coming out of your mouths?"

“Really? I heard it was -“

"For the love of God, stop."

“- Something to do with Rutgers, too -“

Ian grabbed the crutches leaning by his bed and swung them towards Ben. The ex-SAS soldier stepped out of the way, smirking.

"My life is not a cartoon spy story," Ian grouched, "And cow-catapults, really? Alex wrote better when he was in Year Three."

"Oh, right, the peacock thing, yeah? First time anyone in the Dakar office saw you smile -"

_"Farnesworth -"_

Taylor smiled serenely. “My work here is done."

Colin rolled his eyes, but didn’t fight down the smirk tugging at his lips. “Boston wasn’t even the most embarrassing. Did you hear about why he couldn’t go to Fallujah?”

“ _Colin!”_

Liz giggled and squeezed Ian’s shoulder. “Get some rest. We promise not to _completely_ ruin your reputation to Daniels.”

“Please die. All of you.”

Alex shook his head as the other spies left. “You have some… interesting friends, Ian.”

“We’re not friends, not exactly,” Ian demurred, looking over Alex carefully. “How are you?”

“Me?!”

“Well, you had a very traumatic experience yesterday, and received some world-shaking news. And now you’re here, another stressful experience.”

Alex laughed weakly. “I’m fine, Ian. You’re the one who just got out of surgery. I should be the one worried about you!”

“What, over this? Nah, don’t listen to Alan, he likes to make out things are worse than they are.”

Having been treated by Dr. Hayward not once, but twice, Alex somehow doubted that.

“He said he’s been treating you for over a decade. How often…”

“I can’t answer that, Alex.”

Alex fell silent, his jaw clenching. “Right. Of course.”

“Alex…”

The teen shook his head. “No, it’s - it’s fine. I get it.”

There was something deeply sad in Ian’s gaze, clouded as it was with morphine. He squeezed Alex’s hand. “Look, let’s talk about something else. You said something about _Grease_ at breakfast, tell me about that.”

Alex’s brow furrowed slightly. “You sure? You’ll probably think it’s boring…”

Ian smiled. “I don’t think anything you tell me could be boring, Alex.”

Alex’s lips quirked up. “Alright. It started when…”

Ian leaned back and listened to his nephew talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cow-catapult thing was the result of a NaNo word challenge back when I first started this thing in 2013; it's basically Ian's friends making shit up on the spot to lighten the mood as a favour to Ian since Alex is around.
> 
> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns? Let me know!


	10. Family Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian nodded, his gaze clouded. His breathing was measured, as if he was being very careful not to aggravate some pain. Alex remembered the night Ian came home, remembered all the times he’d asked about John Rider as a child. Ian always sounded like he was being vivisected, and it felt cruel to press him further. But Ian _never_ talked about his parents, and now that he finally had the opportunity to hear the truth from someone who wasn’t a traitor, or trying to sell him an angle - at least, he hoped Ian wasn’t - he was loathe to give it up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added 5 Nov: Whoops, forgot this chapter was supposed to go before the Scorpia one!
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Alex Rider or any associated intellectual property. Anthony Horowitz does.
> 
> Stay safe during these pandemic times, everyone!

The words ‘WELCOME HOME’ were strung up on the wall in bright, metallic plastic letters. A few colourful streamers hung at each end of the phrase, and a cluster of balloons bumped the ceiling above the table.

“Jack, tell me you didn’t bake a cake,” Ian asked in amusement, as Alex held the door open for him.

The teen grinned. “Well, she wanted to. I convinced her to get one from Tesco instead.”

Jack scowled as the Riders snickered over the memory of her last disastrous baking attempt, which had ended with a very flustered Jack and Ian blandly remarking that his pyjamas weren’t designed to withstand the nights of London outdoors as a fireman explained to a curious young Alex what the different pipes and pumps on the truck did.

“Such thanks I get for trying to make your homecoming special, Ian,” the redhead huffed.

Ian smiled disarmingly. “Thank you, Jack. I appreciate it, really. I’m sure the cake will be wonderful.”

Jack narrowed her eyes suspiciously, sure that Ian was still laughing at her, but ushered him to the sofa with a smile. “Would you like to come in, too, Mr. - um, Agent…?”

Ben flashed Jack a smile. “Just Ben’ll do, Ma’am.”

Jack flushed slightly. “Well then, just call me Jack.”

Ian and Alex exchanged dubious glances behind their backs.

“But it depends on Agent Rider,” Ben continued graciously, “It’s his home, after all.”

Ian waved him in irritatedly, “Get in here, Daniels. Just don’t eat me out of house and home. I know how much you SAS-types can put away.”

“You should,” Ben muttered under his breath, sidestepping Ian’s protruding crutch.

“Go help Jack with the food, Daniels.”

“Ian!” Jack admonished as Ben followed her to the kitchen. “You don’t have to -“

“It’s fine,” Ben replied gently, “I don’t mind. Gives the Riders more time to catch up, yeah?”

Jack nodded.

Back in the living room, Ian leaned back into the sofa with a sigh and Alex looked at him curiously, sitting down beside him. “It’s the little things you miss,” Ian explained, his eyes falling shut, “Never thought I’d miss the cushions on this old thing.”

“I thought the cushions were the reason you bought it,” Alex replied wryly, “Jack couldn’t get over how enthusiastic you were over them when you two went shopping for it.”

Ian turned his head to look at him. “Oh, good memory.”

The pair fell silent, and then Ian prompted, “Something on your mind?”

Alex scoffed. “My father’s brother, who’s been dead for over a year just came back to life. Why would there be anything on my mind?”

Ian frowned slightly and nudged the teen. Alex bit his lip. “Why did you join MI6?”

Ian grew impossibly still and Alex immediately regretted his words. “Sorry, I -“

“Cut to right to the heart of things, don’t you, lad,” Ian said ruefully, forcing himself to relax. “Your mother was a lot like that.”

Alex’s eyes widened slightly. Ian rarely talked about either of his parents. “Did you know her well?”

“I knew her a fair bit, yes. Perhaps not as well as if she was my own flesh and blood; I always used to think I’d have more time…” Ian broke off for a moment, swallowing past the grief. He continued, “One of the reasons she and your father got on so well was because she never let him get away with anything. She saw through his deflections and right to the heart of the matter. I think it was a bit of a novelty for him, having someone like that.”

“Were they… they loved each other?”

Ian smiled in remembrance. “Oh, very much. Anyone who knew them could tell they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. John’s entire being would light up when Helen entered the room, and she would always gravitate towards him. It wasn’t long after they met that they went from ‘John’ and ‘Helen’ to ‘John-and-Helen’ to their friends, they were inseparable. By the time they got married, the ceremony was just a formality for them. They knew they were going to be with each other forever.”

Ian’s gaze grew distant, a faint smile on his face. Alex frowned slightly, processing. From the way Ian spoke, He cared very much about both John and Helen, but if that were the case, why hadn’t he been at their wedding?

“Ash… he said you were away on assignment during their wedding…”

Alex froze at the wave of fury that rolled across Ian’s face, the older man’s knuckles turning white with how tightly he was clenching his fists. He’d never seen that kind of expression on Ian’s face before, not his calm, mild-mannered Uncle. He’d seen angry before, of course, and disappointed; it was all part and parcel of growing up - but he’d never seen that kind of vicious, _hateful_ rage.

It was probably safe to say Ian knew about Ash’s betrayal.

“Unfortunately, I was. I don’t know what - _he_ \- told you, but your parents’ marriage wasn’t anything romantic. John couldn’t do romantic if he tried, and Helen was entirely too pragmatic to care. They were moving to a new flat at the time, and it was cheaper for married couples. When I heard…” Ian shook his head. “I called them six different kinds of idiot, but it was their choice in the end. God knew they’d been acting as if they were married long before then.”

Alex blinked. His parents had gotten married… to get a discount on a flat? It just seemed so… ordinary. A bit cheap, if he thought about it.

“They loved each other very much, Alex,” Ian reassured him, “But a wedding was just a piece of paper for them. They believed their actions and living their lives as a couple were more important.”

“Did… Mum know about what Dad did? About MI6?”

Ian nodded. “Blunt threw a fit, but John and Helen were always completely honest with each other. It helped that Helen was his primary care physician - MI6 likes to keep things in-house. John always told her when he was going out on operations, especially deep cover.”

“So she knew about Scorpia.”

Ian nodded, his gaze clouded. His breathing was measured, as if he was being very careful not to aggravate some pain. Alex remembered the night Ian came home, remembered all the times he’d asked about John Rider as a child. Ian always sounded like he was being vivisected, and it felt cruel to press him further. But Ian _never_ talked about his parents, and now that he finally had the opportunity to hear the truth from someone who wasn’t a traitor, or trying to sell him an angle - at least, he hoped Ian wasn’t - he was loathe to give it up.

Ian took the choice out of his hands, however, when he turned towards the kitchen, calling out, “Daniels, you’d better not be harassing my housekeeper!”

Ben replied with something slightly rude, as Jack admonished ‘Ian!’ and came out of the kitchen with a tray of food. Ben followed, carrying some more containers.

“Looks good,” Ian said with a smile, “Let’s eat!”

* * *

<<Alex, I say this as your best friend, and in the most loving of ways - quit being a pillock.>>

Alex stared up at his ceiling, his expression stony. “Thanks, Tom.”

<<You know what I mean,>> Tom replied over the phone, <<Your not-dead Uncle is back from the not-grave, and you’re sitting up in your room moping.>>

“You don’t understand,” Alex replied, frustration evident in his voice, “Ian - he’s _different._ It’s not like how things used to be.”

<<He was dead for a year, mate, and you were forced into being James Bond, Jr. Of course things are different.>>

“He started talking about my parents today.”

<<… That’s… new… Thought he couldn’t stand talking about them?>>

“He doesn’t. But, I asked, and told me a bit… He sounded like he was being flayed alive.”

<<I’m hearing a ‘but’ coming.>>

Alex sighed, glancing at the door to his room. Down the corridor, down a flight of stairs, and through the door on the left, Ian was resting on the sofa. “I asked him why he joined MI6, and he deflected by talking about my parents.”

Tom whistled. <<That’s complicated. Like, _Neighbours_ \- level complicated.>>

“You have got to get off the telly, Tom.”

<<My point stands. Look, Alex, I get complicated - _believe_ me, I get complicated; if I never have to hear another custody argument again, it will be too soon. But Ian’s back, and the two of you have a second chance. Just go talk to the man.>>

Alex sighed. “Yeah. I guess.”

<<No guessing about it. Get off the phone and go talk to him, I have a rerun of _Leonardo_ to catch.>>

Alex rolled his eyes and bid his friend goodbye. Tom was right, of course. This was his second chance at a relationship with his Uncle - a real one, without the lies and secrecy.

Well, without _too_ many lies, at least.

Alex padded down the stairs and found himself hesitating at the threshold.

“Something on your mind, Alex?”

“No, nothing, really,” Alex replied, stepping into the room. Ian looked up from the mess of papers on the centre table, his expression calm and open. “What are you working on?”

The older man shook his head ruefully. “Paperwork, mostly. You’d be surprised how many forms it takes to bring someone back form the dead.”

“The Bank has a protocol for that?”

Ian nodded carefully. “We do. Agents sometimes have to fake their deaths for the sake of their missions, so we have procedures in place to bring them home. Especially in this digital age…”

Alex nodded, his gaze thoughtful as he sat down opposite Ian. “You never answered my question before, about why - “

“ - About why I work for the Bank, no, I don’t suppose I did.”

Alex stared at Ian expectantly. The spy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “To be honest, it was a toss-up between Five - MI5 - and Six at the time. The only reason I picked Six was because they told me I could track down the bastards that killed John.”

Alex’s brow furrowed. “Wait, you joined them _after_ Mum and Dad died?”

Ian nodded.

“But - I thought you were on assignment, during their wedding?”

Ian’s lips tilted up wryly. “I _was_ on assignment, just not MI6. I was working for the SAS at the time, as a sniper.”

Alex’s jaw dropped. “You were a _soldier?!_ ”

Ian nodded. “John and I grew up outside the SAS training camp in Wales. All we ever wanted was to get out and serve our country. John went into the Army, then the Parachute Regiment; I went into the Army, then the SAS. Like Agent Daniels, I got seconded from the SAS to military intelligence pretty quickly.”

“Ash made it seem like you’d always been a spy…”

Ian made an aborted noise in the back of his throat, lips thinning in displeasure. “He probably thought I was. Special Forces is just as shrouded in secrecy and red tape as the Service is, even if John _did_ talk about me, he’d have had to couch it in vague terms. When you join the Service, you either lie about your job, or you make a completely new civilian identity for yourself. Mine was a bit of both - my service record is sealed up tight, but my overall civilian identity didn’t change.”

Alex sat back, unsure what to think. On the one hand, he was learning more about Ian than he ever expected. On the other, it felt like everything he’d ever known about the man was wrong.

“It’s a lot to take in, I know,” Ian said gently, “I can understand -“

“Did you still go to Cambridge?” Alex blurted out, overriding him. He didn’t want to know, right now, what Ian _understood._ He just - he wanted information. He needed to focus on getting information for now.

Ian nodded, something old and sad in his eyes. “Mathematics, first class, honours. We try not to change too much more of our history than needed; it’s the little details that get covers blown.”

Covers. There was something inimitably spy-like about the way Ian spoke. He had never talked about his work, and Alex wondered what he would have sounded like as a banker. Maybe that was why he’d never said anything, he couldn’t get the _details_ quite right.

Ian set his pen down, looking at Alex intently. “Alex, I know I’ve never been very open about my past - your past, your history. And for that, I’m sorry. But I have this second chance… I’d like to do better by you. So if you ask, I will do what I can, to answer to the best of my ability.”

Alex’s eyes widened slightly. What Ian was offering, it was monumental. He knew - fifteen years and he _knew_ \- how much it hurt Ian to talk about John Rider, and he had more than an inkling of how complicated it was to talk about anything involving the spy life. But Ian was offering that to him on a silver platter, because he wanted to do better by Alex, because he _cared_ … Alex felt a fierce rush of affection for the man.

This was Ian. This was his father’s brother, the man who raised him. The man who showed him the world, who laughed with him, who taught him to stand on his own to feet.

Alex grinned at his father’s brother, and Ian blinked as if the sun had just come out. “Thanks, Ian.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!


	11. Scorpia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Scorpia has not made it as far as it has by being reckless. We stand to lose a lot more if we continue and Rider gets the best of us, than if we withdraw now and regroup. We can be patient.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's staying safe and healthy during this crisis! Hopefully this chapter will brighten your day a little.
> 
> Disclaimer: All Alex Rider intellectual property belongs to Anthony Horowitz. I own nothing.
> 
> Remember to wash your hands and be kind to grocery store and hospital workers!

“I don’t know whether to kiss Agent Rider or kill him.”

Taylor smirked and glanced down at the speaker’s monitor. “You’d be surprised how common a sentiment that is. What have you got for me, Pritchard?”

Technical Analyst Pritchard leaned back from his computer with a sigh. “Seven layers of encryption broken through, up to seven hundred more to go, Ma’am.”

“Only seven hundred?” Taylor replied dryly. “That should be child’s play.”

“Ma’am!” Pritchard protested unhappily, “You and Agent Bennet were able to bring back a ton of intelligence, which is great! But it’s also a _ton_ of intelligence, and no one in this department’s slept for _days_ , trying to extract out usable information before Scorpia figures out what happened and everything becomes obsolete. We’ve even brought over some of the boys from Vauxhall Cross.”

Taylor’s eyebrow rose slightly as she scanned the room’s occupants. While Special Operations was only one division among many in the whole of MI6, they were afforded a certain amount of autonomy because they housed the most rapid-response Field Agents. The “Special” in their division’s title wasn’t just for show, their operations tended to be more exotic - and occasionally more illicit - than the operations conducted by other branches based at Vauxhall Cross. As a result, operatives from other MI6 divisions saw SO Agents as somewhat maverick, and SO Agents saw their counterparts as a bit… stodgy. It made for some interesting rivalries, and the administration had often accused Director Blunt of poaching operatives.

“They causing any trouble?”

Pritchard shook his head. “No, Ma’am, we need the extra resources. Might even get a convert or two. Anything to figure out what Scorpia’s doing before they, well, do it.”

“Anything useful from the encryption?”

Pritchard nodded. “Just consolidated the latest batch of SIGINT. We’ve got a lot from the encryption so far about patterns, and techniques for the future, even though we’re lacking on immediate actionable intelligence.”

“And Horseman?”

Pritchard inclined his head towards one of his neighbours. “Beth’s working it up right now; we should have something to feed Scorpia in a few hours.”

Taylor clapped the analyst on the shoulder. “Good, keep at it. This could be one of the biggest wins this division’s had in years!”

* * *

Zeljan Kurst was angry.

Not that it showed, of course, that would never do. Especially not in a boardroom with the other executive members of Scorpia watching him closely. There were eleven members now; they had yet to recruit a replacement for Levi Kroll.

“Señor Santiago,” Kurst began, the Spanish title falling from his lips as ugly as English did, “Would you like to explain to the rest of the Board why we are gathered here today?”

Miguel Santiago was a small man, with a weaselly face and wispy goatee he took inordinate pride in. His small stature belied the power he held at his fingertips, running terrorist training camps throughout most of Central and South America, and smuggling weapons throughout the region. One of Scorpia’s prison camps had been overseen by him.

The same camp that had been discovered in ruins recently, all personnel dead and one of Scorpia’s most important assets missing.

Miguel Santiago knew he wasn’t leaving the meeting alive. After all, Ian Rider had escaped on his watch. He cleared his throat. “Four days ago, there was an… attack on one of our prison compounds.”

Santiago looked around the room, taking in the stony faces, ranging from haughty to bored to completely expressionless. Everyone had already been debriefed on the situation before arriving, due to the escalated threat level. The Columbian swallowed heavily. “Ian Rider is missing.”

There was no shift in anyone’s expressions, though the Santiago could feel the intensity of his colleagues’ ire boring into him. He steeled himself and forced himself to continue with his report. “All our on-site personnel are dead. All causes of death are consistent with Rider’s tactics - bullets to the head, broken necks, quick, sometimes brutal, deaths. There are, as yet, no signs that Rider received outside help.”

At this point, Seamus snorted. “You’ve got to be bloody joking. One man - one tortured, malnourished man - tore through an entire prison camp, staffed by Scorpia’s supposedly best operatives in South America? On his own? What kind of staff do you even have down there?”

Mr. Mikato folded his hands on the table. “I share my esteemed colleague’s disbelief. Ian Rider may be something of a bogeyman in certain circles, but at the end of the day, he is still one man, subject to the human body’s limitations. He cannot have managed this without help.”

“Well, as yet, my people have been able to find no evidence that Rider contacted anyone.”

Mr. Mikato, despite being about the same size as Santiago, managed an expression so haughty, it looked like he was looking down his nose at him.

The Frenchman, Monsieur Duval decided to cut in with a more direct question. “How much of our information has been compromised? The initial report was unexpectedly vague on the matter.”

Santiago straightened up, marginally more confident than before. “I have had the best of my people examining our archives. They can find no evidence of tampering.”

Duval scoffed. “You expect us to believe that _Ian Rider_ killed every one of his captors and then left a veritable goldmine of information untouched? C’est incroyable. Non, c’est _ridicul._ ”

There was a polite clearing of someone’s throat, reminding the Frenchman that the agreed language for the meeting was English. Using any other language would considered quite rude.

“What does this mean for our plans?” Dr. Three asked, joining the conversation.

“One possibility is putting our South and Central American operations on hold,” Zeljan Kurst replied, “But that would cost us considerably in money and reputation. Another is to assume MI6 is aware of our plans and adjust them accordingly, but continue the operations.”

“There is no evidence that we have been compromised by Ian Rider!” Santiago protested.

“Rider’s one of the best of the best,” Brendon Chase replied. “If I had to rank him, I’d put him in the top twenty spies in the world, maybe higher. There are rumours - silly ones, of course - that he’s not totally human, considering how many times he should have died, but didn’t, and how many things he knows, but shouldn’t. We’d be fools to assume he hasn’t gone home and spilled everything he knows to MI6.”

“How much can he really know?” Eduardo Grimaldi asked. “The man was tortured and imprisoned for a year, it is not as if he was reading our files every day.”

Giovanni Grimaldi narrowed his eyes as his twin spoke. Santiago had turned even paler. “But perhaps Signor Santiago has a better perspective on Agent Rider’s skills. Perhaps you were closer to him than you would like us to believe?”

Santiago’s eyes widened. “That is preposterous!”

“Lads might be on to something,” Seamus mused, “Security cock-up this big doesn’t just happen overnight. Spies know how to wait, Rider’s probably been biding his time, looking for an opportunity. Who’d you have working him over, anyway?”

“Many people,” Santiago dismissed, “Even Dr. Three and Mr. Mikato have visited him. The point is -“

“The point _is_ , Rider could have been playing you from the start! He could have been planted by Blunt to gather information.”

“I rather doubt he could gather much information while screaming in agony!”

Kurst’s gaze flicked to the only two members of the executive board who hadn’t spoken yet: Razim and Kgosi Aidid. Razim was watching the brewing argument with a disinterested air, and Kgosi’s gaze was sharp and watchful. The African’s gaze flicked to Kurst, a faint glimmer of a challenge in them.

“I believe we are straying from the point of this meeting,” Kurst declared, bringing a halt to Seamus’ argument with Santiago. “Ian Rider has escaped from one of our prison camps. We do not know how much information he has. We do not even know where he is, though it is logical to assume he is on his way to MI6. In addition to compromised intelligence, we are down at least fifty people and several million euros of equipment. Señor Santiago, what information was stored on-site that Rider may have had access too?”

“Personnel files, arms, logistics…”

“So, basically, everything,” Chase summarised derisively. “Great job on security, there.”

“Now that we have assessed the situation, our next steps.”

“If I may,” Razim finally cut in, “There is a way to salvage the situation without great disruption to us. MI6 knows us too well to expect us not to detect their infiltration. If indeed they have Señor Santiago’s information on us, then they will be expecting us to respond by aborting our missions. They will not expect us to expect _them_ and to continue as planned.”

“You’re suggesting a counter-bluff.”

Razim pulled out a cigarette, lighting it. “The most crucialof our current operations, Operation Horseman, is still untouched. I have received reports from my people, Blunt and Jones have fallen into our trap perfectly. Alex Rider should soon be in Cairo.”

“And Ian Rider?”

“There is no evidence of him having made contact.”

“How certain are you that your people have not been compromised?”

“As certain as I can be without seeing them myself. Things are already well in motion, the decoy has already been recruited. It would be remiss of us to throw away all of our hard work because of one… oversight.”

“Perhaps,” Kgosi said, finally speaking in his deep bass, “But Scorpia has not made it as far as it has by being reckless. We stand to lose a lot more if we continue and Rider gets the best of us, than if we withdraw now and regroup. We can be patient.”

“ _Patience_ could lose us clients and further weaken our reputation,” Seamus spat.

“I believe this would be a good time to call for a vote,” Monsieur Duval cut in, before another argument could spark.

All heads turned to Kurst. He nodded. “All those in favour of aborting our South and Central American operations.”

Some of the hands rose.

“All in favour of counter-bluffing MI6 and maintaining all operations as normal.”

Some other hands rose.

“All abstaining.”

Two hands rose.

Kurst nodded. “Majority rules, we will proceed with all operations. Notify your people accordingly. Is there any other business to discuss?”

Several heads shook.

“Very well. Meeting adjourned.”

One by one, the members of the Scorpia Executive Board left the room. The glass boat docked, and they filed off, until Miguel Santiago was the only one left in the meeting room. He had not moved from his seat as the others left. There was a silver pistol laid on the table in front of him. The Columbian reached out and closed his hand over it.

Several minutes later, a shot rang out, and the boat began moving again. It would keep sailing, out into the Atlantic, until it ran out of fuel. Perhaps another sailing vessel would come across it, or perhaps with would run aground on some rocky shore. Perhaps a sudden storm would whip up and shatter it - glass was so very fragile, after all.

* * *

Razim’s shirt fluttered in the wind as he watched a cargo ship pull into the dock. He was wearing loose linen Western clothes, presenting himself as a rich merchant, checking on highly sensitive goods pulling into the Port of Gibraltar. It was just before sunrise, dim light spreading across the docks, while the sun still hid below the seas. It would take another seventeen minutes for the sun to fully cross the horizon, and by that time, Razim intended to be long gone.

There was a shout from the ship’s captain as a ramp was lowered, signalling that the ship was ready to be board. Razim made his way towards the ramp as two sailors appeared on deck, using the AK-47s strapped across their torsos to usher a figure between them. Even without the weak light of the pre-dawn, Razim would have known that the figure stood at 5’ 10”, with short-cropped blond hair, and cold brown eyes.

His eyebrow twitched ever so slightly as the sailors shoved the figure off the ramp, and then scrambled back up warily, guns at the ready.

“What on Earth did you do to the soldiers?”

“I didn’t do anything,” the figure whined, sounding every inch the fifteen-year-old schoolboy he was.

Julius Grief stepped out of the shadow of the cargo ship and looked at Razim, eyes gleaming with hate. “So. When do I get to kill Alex Rider?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Comments? Concerns?
> 
> Thanks for stopping by!


End file.
